Episode Three - 'There Is A Light That Will Never Go Out'

Interval time. James Pemberton, the enfant terrible of Tony Deighton’s cabinet, rose from his seat and escorted his wife into the foyer, through the milling crowd of culture vultures and on into the bar area. The location was the South bank Arts Centre and the occasion was a radical interpretation of Goethe’s Faust set in the early years of the Third Reich. In this production Faust was an upwardly mobile member of the Nazi party eager to advance himself through any means possible. Bleak urban sets doubled up as burnt out Jewish ghettos, degenerate Berlin cabaret bars and the SS castle at Wewelsburg where Himmler dreamt of a magickal order of Teutonic knights. The Devil of course appeared in the guise of an SS officer.

“An original interpretation, don’t you think my dear?” asked James of his wife.

“Original, yes, but also very depressing.”

James laughed. “One doesn’t watch a production of Faust for belly laughs. What would you like to drink?”

The South bank was crowded tonight. The cultured elite were here, some to watch the play and some just to be seen by their peers. Pemberton shook hands with a famous gay actor as he approached the area of the bar where pre-ordered interval drinks could be picked up. The actor smiled and said, “it’s good to see the corridors of Whitehall appreciate drama and art once again.”

“Indeed.” James Pemberton had a reputation for being a friend of the arts community. Earlier in his career he had saved many a fine theatre and museum by pressing for a series of Government grants to be released. The artists never forgot that.

As Pemberton picked up his half pint of lager and the gin n’ tonic for his wife he noticed that a young woman was watching him closely. She was stunningly attractive, with soft platinum-blonde hair, delicate English features, a rich tan, and she was wearing an expensive off the shoulder full length black dress. Pemberton thought ruefully of his own wife Jane, who could best be described as ‘handsome’ in comparison. The girl was holding a black handbag with a Gucci label on it. She smiled and took a step towards him. Turning to his wife, James Pemberton offered her the gin n’ tonic and sipped his beer. Piped music drifted through the room, submerged for the most part beneath the loud chatter and laughter of the audience. Pemberton glanced round and saw the girl was still walking towards him. Typical, he thought to himself. Any other night and he could pass an amusing few minutes flirting with the girl, but not tonight, not with his wife present. He raised a curious eyebrow as she drew to a stop five feet away.

“James Pemberton,” she said.

“Can I help you young lady?” He enjoyed playing the part of the charming man about town.

“In the name of the revolution and in the name of all the oppressed people of London, I sentence you to die!” As she spoke she drew a snub nosed pistol from her bag. The bag fell to the floor as she dropped into a crude firing stance.

Pemberton stood speechless for a moment, as the girl’s words tried to register in his brain. And then she fired the pistol. There was a loud bang and a bright red cherry exploded from Pemberton’s back. Another explosion and another bullet tore through his neck. People began screaming as the minister fell backwards. A third bullet tore through his face and exited through the back of his skull and then he was dead.

Elenor’s flat – London

When they kick down your front door, how ya going to come? With your hands on your head, or on the trigger of a gun? – The Clash

I needed money cuz I had none. I fought the law and the law won – the Bobby Fuller Four

Elenor dumped her bag on the floor of her hallway as she closed and locked the front door to her flat. Home sweet home after far too long wandering around America. "Hello sofa," she said as she wandered into the familiar looking living room. Elenor fell backwards onto the sofa and kicked her shoes off. "I am never… going back to America," she said to herself. "Well, not for a year or so anyway." There had been a stack of letters waiting for her, mostly bearing the official looking envelopes of credit card companies. Her plastic was well over the red line and Elenor wouldn't be able to pay any of them off until she scrounged some money from her Uncle. She considered her best tactic would probably be to visit him next Sunday. A modest white dress and heels would be called for if she was going to arrange for her debts to be paid off. Elenor picked up the hand set of her satellite phone and dialled Gideon's office number. Again there was no answer. Where was he? She tried his home number and again got an answering machine.

"Shit." Elenor curled up on the sofa and switched on the TV with the hand held remote. Mind numbing TV, that’s what I want, right here, right now, story and pictures. It would take Elenor some time to get back into the groove that was trendy London life. Debts notwithstanding there was plenty to do. First things first, TV, then a long hot bath with a Body Shop loofah and some Lush bath products to hand, and then some therapeutic shopping. Damn – Elenor winced – she kept forgetting about the debt problem. Shopping would have to wait She grabbed the sat-phone and re-dialled Gideon’s office again. Shouldn’t he have a secretary to take messages? This was just so inconvenient.

“You’re through to the office of Gideon Haines. Please leave a message after the tone.” BEEP.

“Uncle? It’s Elenor. Look, I really, really need you to get back to me. Please.” Elenor clicked the phone off. This was impossible… what was she going to do without money? She dialled her brother’s number. The phone rang seven times before someone picked it up.

“Hello?” came the tired voice on the other end of the line. Elenor checked her watch – it was 11.15 in the morning – Daniel probably hadn’t got up yet. In many ways he was as bad as Alex. It was a good thing the two of them had never met.

“Daniel, it’s Elenor.”

“Hello, sis.” Daniel’s voice picked up a little. He hadn’t heard from his sister in nearly two months and, although he would never admit it, he still looked up to her in many ways. He was always happy to hear from her.

“Daniel, I need some money. How much have you got?”

“Oh. And hi, Sis, it’s nice to hear from you too. It’s been, what, two months?” Daniel was rubbing sleep from his eyes in his student bedsit. He felt pissed off. Elenor was calling to borrow money? That was funny in itself. What he had she could blow in a few hours shopping.

“I’m sorry Daniel, I didn’t mean it to sound like that. How are you doing?”

“Fine. Great in fact. I’ve got this wonderful new girlfriend called Rachel, and…”

“Have you spoken to our Uncle recently?”

“Uh, no…” Daniel sat up in bed and scratched his head.

“It’s just that I only ever get his answer machine and I need to borrow some money from him.”

“Borrow?” Daniel had never heard of Elenor ever returning any money Gideon had given her.

“Well, you know what I mean. Where’s he gone?”

“I don’t know sis. I don’t really speak to…”

“How’s father and mother?”

Daniel sighed and switched the phone from the left hand side of his shoulder to the right. The girl sleeping beside him was waking up. “Yeah they’re good. Mum says you haven’t called in…”

“I really need some money, Daniel. I’ve just got back from the States, and I’ve lost my job.”

“You’ve lost your job? How is that possible? I thought Uncle pulled strings for it?”

“It’s a bit complicated, but basically I haven’t been into work for about six weeks now. I kind of neglected to book holiday.”

“Sis… you can’t just do that sort of thing. What about your rent?”

“Oh, that’s paid for. Uncle Gideon covers that with a standing order.” Elenor sighed. “I’m really broke until I can get a loan from him. I’ve only got a handful of change.”

“Have you got any food?”

“No.” Elenor huffed and kicked a pillow. “The stuff in the fridge has gone off.”

“Look, I’ll come straight over and we’ll go to the local supermarket and I’ll buy you some…”

There was a loud crash and a splintering of wood from Elenor’s hallway, followed by the sound of boots running towards the living room. Elenor leapt to her feet, the phone still cradled into her hand as three police officers in riot armour, clutching pistols, ran into the room.

“ON THE FLOOR!” shouted the first one.

“HANDS ON YOUR HEAD!” shouted another.

“Sis? What’s going on?” Daniel could hear the commotion through the phone.

“Don’t come round, Daniel,” said Elenor quickly. “Don’t come round.” She dropped the phone.

“LAST WARNING!” The guns were levelled straight at her chest. “By the order of the Tabula Rasa, you are under arrest for the murder of James Pemberton. You have the right to…”

Tabula Rasa: the magic words. Elenor screamed and the men were blown backwards into the hall by the force of the controlled sonic blast.

In Daniel’s bedsit, Rachel Parr turned round and rubbed sleep from her eyes. “Who was that?”

“My sister Elenor.”

”Oh, really?” Rachel sat up, now very alert and interested. She’s back in the country then?”

“Yeah. She wanted to borrow money.” Daniel stared at the phone, now dead, and worried.

Elenor had run straight down the fire escape as sirens began to converge on the street. There had been no time to grab her bag or anything other than her coat. With the sound of heavy boots crunching gravel close by, Elenor ran towards the nearest side street. She sprinted across the road, oblivious to the shouts of police officers behind her, directly towards the tall wooden fence that she jumped. Her hands grabbed the top of the fence and she pulled herself up and over onto the other side. The crunch of police boots sounded close behind as she tumbled down onto some trash cans, knocking them over, and spilling the rubbish onto the pavement. The first policeman vaulted the fence close behind her. Elenor span round and high kicked him in the face as he landed on his feet. His head snapped back and hit the fence. The second policeman was halfway over the fence when he saw Elenor crouching in a fighting stance above the prone body of his colleague. PC Taylor swore and reached for the stun gun on his belt. Elenor moved quickly and grabbed his leg. With a sharp tug she pulled him off the fence and dragged him with a thump onto the trash cans. As the police officer lay dazed, Elenor drew his stun gun, flicked the safety catch off and gave him a medium strength jolt. The Policeman's body jerked and then lay still.

Whistles were blowing in every direction as Elenor looked desperately for an escape route. Now a plain clothes officer appeared at the end of the alleyway. He produced a stubb pistol and shouted out an official warning. The stun gun in Elenor's hand was designed for hand to hand combat only, and was of no use now. A warning shot exploded in the alleyway, and Elenor ran for a side door. She threw the full weight of her body against the door and bounced back from the impact. A second controlled shot tore a chunk of brick from the lintel above the door frame. Now Elenor hit the door with a low level sonic blast. The wood splintered around the lock and the door collapsed inwards on a single hinge. Elenor ran through a short corridor and into the back of a bakery. She ran through a large kitchen and an adjoining office and on to the front of the building. The main door was locked but another precious sonic blast from her lungs splintered the door into matchwood. Police cars were converging on this street, cutting off both ends of the road. Car doors were slamming open and heavily booted officers were leaping out of the passenger seats. At one end of the road a large black police van skidded to a halt. Elenor turned her gaze to the sole police car blocking her escape on the right hand side of the road. Now she released her most powerful sonic blast. The car windows exploded. The metal of the car bonnet buckled and the car itself was flipped over onto its side as if it was a toy. The two policemen collapsed onto the road, their ears and eyes bleeding. The streetlights exploded in a shower of glass. A couple of shots hit the road near Elenor as the policemen on the left hand side of the road took position with hand guns and opened fire. How far would her sonic scream go? Elenor tried to reach even further. She turned and screamed with every ounce of emotion in her raw lungs. All the shop windows on either side of the road detonated with the force of a car bomb. Cracks appeared in the asphalt. Men fell wherever they stood. The black van skidded and drove straight into a brick wall as the driver fell forward, knocked unconscious by the noise. Elenor knew she couldn't keep this level of power up indefinitely. Not only was she exhausting her power supply - she was pushing the implant in her throat beyond its redline levels.

Elenor ran and ran and ran until her heart was thumping and she had to stop to catch her breath. The Tabula Rasa was after her again. This was never going to end, but she was not going back into that torture room. She was not going to surrender herself back into the hands of Doctor Polidari. She would run, but in London there were only two places a fugitive could run to: the Camden Free State or Brixton.

London was dark and cold now that the doors to middle class suburbia were closed to Elenor Haines. She shivered in a boarded up doorway as heavy rain lashed the grey streets. Camden or Brixton? Both were technically Police no go areas, and both could offer her a temporary place of refuge. Of the two, Elenor had only really experienced Brixton before. Officials had written it off as a slum area hardly worth bothering with. Political sensitivities precluded levelling the entire site and building modern clean apartments for upwardly mobile business folk, and so the existing roach-infested high rise blocks and damp ridden buildings weren't worth policing. What made Brixton different from Camden was its sense of unified spirit. The inner city territory of Brixton was predominantly black in colour. Originally settled in the twentieth century post second world war years by the children of the empire, it became home to various African and Caribbean immigrants offered a new home to replace the loss of young white men laid waste in the war against Germany. British industry needed black muscles to fill the vacancies in industry, and the call was answered by many families who saw an opportunity to improve their lot in the affluent west. What they hadn't reckoned with was a sullen and hostile reception from the predominantly racist English class system. England's black subjects were a necessity, but no more welcome for that.

Sometime in the eighties a sense of community spirit had grown in the Brixton territories. Brixton was the unofficial name given to clearly defined blocks of London property that had banded together for protection in the face of official neglect and police hostility. The grey roads and buildings bore colourfully painted signs and murals of a mythical Africa that had never actually existed. Here the east and west met in a blaze of colour and music that served to draw attention away from the basic living conditions and low wages.

Elenor had visited Brixton once when she was 19, fascinated to see the underbelly of the Afro-Caribbean counter culture. She had wandered nervously into the bunting-laden streets during one of the open carnival days, had flirted dangerously with a number of Jamaican men in a basement bar and drunk rum and coke in a café that boasted trestle tables and packing crates for chairs. The music had been loud - a fusion of reggae, rap and techno. But back then she had money and a comfortable middle class home to return to in the evening.

The more she thought about Brixton the more it became obvious that she couldn’t hide there. To put no fine a point on it, she was white and middle class. The chances of her blending in within Brixton were slim to non existent. Not that Camden was a much better choice, but at least it was full of counter culture white boys and Tank Girl rejects. Scruffed up a little, Elenor could blend in. Well, no she couldn’t. Elenor knew nothing about the counter culture. The music, the fashion, the life style, none of it meant anything. But without thinking, her feet carried her there anyway.

It was easy to lose yourself in Camden. Here amongst the bohemian artists, drummer boys, goths, hippies, neo-goths, crusties, punks, urbanites, and other members of London's oppressed counter culture, one more woman would hardly be noticed. Elenor on the other hand stood out like a sore thumb. With her black, flared FCUK pants, crème coloured top and expensive ankle boots she gave the impression of being a rich city girl slumming it for thrills.

Camden had been approved as a social experiment along the lines of Amsterdam back in the early nineties. It had attracted more than its fair share of beatnik artists and outcasts all keen to create a Height Ashbury for the new millennium. Like all well meaning social experiments it failed to achieve what it had set out to do, but it did succeed in creating a microcosm world for the dispossessed in London. Effectively Camden was left to its own devices and, it was whispered, the various tribal clans who colonised it observed something called the Camden Peace. What that was or who enforced it Elenor had no idea. Gangsters probably – punks or dole scroungers tough enough to lord it over this new class of urban drop outs. But still, it was a place n which to hide.

Elenor could feel the eyes following her around the café bar as she walked in and took a table in the corner. The room was smoke filled with the smell of coffee beans and malt hops thick in the air. The menu was written in English and Arabic. Most of the men and women in the room were dressed in a patchwork of second hand clothes, motley browns and dusty blacks, mixed with some khaki shades and decorated with splashes of colour in the form of scarves or in the case of the women, baggy jumpers. Everyone in the café reeked of poverty. It was in their hair - long, lank and usually tied back in pony tails or braids; it was in their skin - sallow and worn, old before its time; it was in the hacking coughs and the sneezing from living in damp badly heated buildings; it was in the predatory glances, the hushed conversations and the hands encased in woollen fingerless gloves.

Elenor was served a porcelain mug of free trade coffee that tasted bland compared to the cruel trade coffees she was used to drinking in Soho. The menu was vegetarian but cheap. She ordered some soup and bread and counted out some change on the wooden table surface.

The waitress, a black girl with long dreads wrapped in coloured paper, scooped up Elenor's money and stuffed it into a bum bag that she wore, zipped, at her waist.

"I'm looking for somewhere cheap to stay," said Elenor as the waitress was about to turn away.

"Plenty of cheap places in Camden. Some of them are almost free." The woman regarded Elenor's expensive, albeit dirty clothes.

"I don't know how to go about things here. How do I get a room?"

"Just knock on a door and ask. Most people will say yes to cash." The waitress regarded Elenor. "You do have cash?"

"Some. Not much."

"If you're on a budget, try the Game Keeper - it's a commune based hotel. They get a lot of traffic going in and out every day, so there's usually a short waiting list for a bed. They only take vegetarians though. Is that a problem?"

Elenor shook her head.

"Ask for Mick. He'll ask you a few questions, maybe, but you should get a room."

"Thank you." Elenor cradled the hot mug of coffee in her hands. It would be dark soon. Tempting as it was to stay inside a warm café drinking coffee, Elenor had things to do, and top of the list was finding some accommodation.

Elenor pounded her fist on the door a second time and gazed around the street. She was attracting some mild interest from a few crusty looking men and a girl dressed in a drab overcoat, cherry red boots and thirty strings of beads that hung from her neck to her knees. The Game Keeper was hardly a hotel in the proper sense of the word. It could barely be called a guest house. In fact it was nothing more than a run down squat with a rainbow flag hanging from one of the windows. The waitress had told Elenor that the rainbow flags on houses indicated squats that might be prepared to take people in. There were other flags that would do the same, but the waitress had suggested Elenor stick with the rainbow flags.

“They’ll be eco types – reasonably friendly and less likely to take advantage of someone like you. The black flags signify anarchist communes – they’d eat you alive – you look rich. The red flags are communist squats – obvious enough. But it’s up to you.”

“Hi,” said Elenor in a cheery voice as the front door opened. A suspicious looking man in a long knitted sweater and round John Lennon glasses peered out at her.

“Yes?”

“I’m Elenor. I need somewhere to stay. A waitress at the café told…”

“We’re vegetarian. Is that a problem?”

“Of course not. I don’t mind what you eat. I’m very understanding. I’ll only cook meat when you’re out or, failing that I’ll just grab a burger from the local McDonalds.” The door slammed shut. “What? What did I say?” Elenor pounded on the locked door. “Hey? What’s going on?”

“Fucking hippie,” Elenor swore as she wandered gloomily down the road. The pavement was cluttered with street traders sitting down beside blankets on which they displayed all manner of bric-a-brac for sale. Further down the road the more affluent and successful traders had their own ramshackle stalls. But Elenor’s priority was a roof over her head. She kept her eyes out for any building with a rainbow flag. Before long she found one.

“Hello,” said Elenor, trying to look cheerful again as a thin looking man opened the door. Elenor couldn’t believe how thin he was – that had to be a size 26 waist. “I’m Elenor.” She beamed a big smile.

“Hello Elenor.” The man looked suspicious. Elenor realised it had to be her clothes.

“I need somewhere to stay.”

“We’re vegetarian. Is that a problem?”

“Not at all. I love animals and I wouldn’t dream of eating them. Some of my best friends are cows.” Elenor thought briefly of Alyson. “And pigs.” Bloodhawk sprang to mind.

“We believe in communal living. That means we all take turns and work together as a fully functional family.”

“Great. Sounds great. I’m really into that.” Elenor tried peering past the man to see what the hallway looked like. “Peace, yeah?” she flashed him a V-for victory sign with her fingers.

“I’m Michael, and I lead this house, though technically we don’t believe in leaders.” He opened the door wider. “All decision making is proposed and ratified by a community council in which we all have a say. We believe that individual decision making is unethical and confrontational, promoting greed and selfish thinking.”

“Of course. I couldn’t put it better myself.” The hallway looked okay, though the green walls were a little bright. Elenor followed him inside. From the hallway she could smell a mixture of vegetable curry and joss sticks.

“We believe that personal relationships are unhealthy for communal living and based on selfish impulses, and therefore our members only enter into sexual relationships with the blessing of everyone else. This is to prevent our group family concept from breaking down into ‘me and them’ couple cliques which would inevitably destroy the harmony of the house.”

“Of course. That makes perfect sense.” So I don’t get to have sex with anyone without a communal blessing, thought Elenor. Not a great loss. I’m not exactly planning on jumping in bed with people who don’t care that they don’t have proper shower facilities.

“I’ll introduce you to the others later on at meal time.” Michael began to lead Elenor up the stairs. “You can have one of the small rooms in the attic.”

Elenor opened the door into a small room with a sloping roof. It had a plain mattress on the floor and a ceramic pot, presumably the toilet. There was nothing else. The small window overlooked the back alley way.

“Lovely. And how do I ring for room service?”

Michael’s expression was blank and joyless.

“That was, uh, a joke, okay?”

The Offices of ORBITAL

The operations room was crowded for the first time since the London riots. Every Amber team had been called in at short notice for a crisis briefing. Bretnor and Gabriel nodded to their peers as they entered the room, fresh from the bar at lunch time. There were a lot of faces present that normally only came in to the office at Christmas for the departmental party.

"We should work from home," suggested Gabriel as he helped himself to some courtesy sandwiches and a cup of hot Earl Grey tea. "Everyone's doing it these days. Working from a single desk is so 20th century."

"In case you haven't noticed, the Ministry for Secular Affairs has yet to claw itself kicking and screaming from the 19th century, let alone the 20th."

"Good point."

Old man Price was standing by a lecture stand with a big overhead projector behind him. His nose was bright red and bulbous from a few too many brandies at lunch time, and his Saville Row jacket showed faint traces of horseradish sauce where presumably the linen bib had been pulled away in a hurry. A couple of chairs were arranged next to the lecture podium. Thirty other chairs were arranged in rows facing the stage. Half of these were already occupied by the more eager agents. The older and wiser hands knew they didn't have to impress their boss anymore.

Bretnor popped a sausage roll into his mouth and regarded the figures sitting to the side. They were super heroes - American by the look of their costumes - probably Tabula Rasa. One had a badly scarred face and another was blind. The third looked like Rambo in black leather.

"Doesn't the department have dress restrictions any more?" whispered Bretnor to his partner. "They aren't even wearing ties."

"Shocking." Gabriel fingered his own hand spun silk tie that he’d bought in Italy.

Bretnor nudged his partner in the side of the ribs and pointed subtly towards a young woman who stood alone in the centre of the room. None of the other agents were associating with her, and for good reason. She was 5'6" tall, with a shaggy crop of peroxide bleached blonde hair (with black roots showing in the parting) and an unsubtle dress sense. She wore a pleated white tennis skirt, fish net tights, a black sleeveless t-shirt with the words ‘If you’re not wasted then day is’ emblazoned on it, a tatty black leather biker jacket, Doc Martin boots, tightly laced, and a pair of ray ban dark glasses to hide her blood shot eyes. Her name was Neko and she was bad news.

Neko was bad news within Orbital because of her track record. Since being promoted from who knows where, Neko had served in a junior capacity in three different Amber teams. In every case her luckless partners had ended up dead or seriously injured within a matter of weeks. Some people have the knack of attracting trouble. Neko had the knack of attracting a hail of bullets that usually chopped her partners down around her. Having Neko on your team was plain bad luck.

Bretnor had long ago come to the conclusion that Neko had been transferred to Orbital simply as a way of getting her out of another department that had taken too many casualties. He smiled and nodded in the direction of James Kilroy, who was attending the meeting today in a wheel chair with an iron lung machine trailing behind, maintained by a rather attractive brunette nurse in a formal starched crinoline uniform. James was the head of Amber 12 and had been Neko's most recent boss. His partner, Michael Langton had been buried last Saturday. Bretnor cocked a smile towards the nurse and was rewarded with a smile back.

The sense of isolation didn't seem to bother Neko at all. She stood there drinking a cup of tea and watched the seats fill up. Everyone assumed she was Polish by birth, but Bretnor had heard rumours that she had a Russian mother and had grown up in East Germany. Whatever, she was a wild card and Bretnor didn't approve of wild cards. Orbital, and indeed the Ministry itself, was steeped in centuries of tradition. Old habits died hard. It was still a sign of poor breeding, for example, not to wear a regimental or school tie on state occasions.

Mr Price coughed to get everyone's attention. "Thank you all for coming at such short notice. I realise many of you are still technically on your lunch break." The clock above his head read 2.55 pm, "but I can assure you this is a matter of no light concern. I have been approached by the Tabula Rasa…" Mr Price indicated the colourfully clad superheroes who sat and listened carefully. There was a faint murmur through the ranks of the Orbital agents as many of them coughed into their hands and muttered 'cunts' quietly to themselves. Wardog pricked up his ears and frowned.

Mr Price flicked a switch on the cable that was connected to his rotating slide machine. An upside down picture of an English Minister appeared on the overhead projector behind his lecture stand. The Orbital agents were far too polite to comment on this.

"James Pemberton - the Minister for Fisheries in His Majesty's Government. A long serving Minister who has proved popular with the common folk of the land through his fair hand and down to earth manner." Mr Price looked grave. "A man who last night was shot to death by an assassin!" He thumped his hand down onto the lecture stand. “Murder!” he cried. “Murder within a stone’s throw of Whitehall itself!”

Wardog nudged the Vindicator in the ribs and said in a quiet American voice "fucking panty waist English operation - they're still using a slide machine… Doesn’t anyone here own a laptop?"

"The murder took place at the South bank arts centre, and thanks to close circuit TV cameras we have pictures of the assassin." He clicked again and another upside down photo appeared behind him. This showed a close up of a beautiful blonde woman with platinum streaks in her hair. "Her name is Elenor Anna Haines, and this morning an attempt was made to apprehend her in her apartment. The arresting officers underestimated how dangerous she is and consequently she is now at large somewhere within London. We are confident she has not yet had an opportunity to flee the city. My secretary will be passing slim dossiers on Miss Haines to you all. Due to the sensitivity of the case - I'm sure you're all aware that Mr Pemberton was an outspoken critic of the Tabula Rasa - it is imperative that this woman is apprehended quickly. Already some members of the gutter press are speculating that this murder is far too convenient for the Tabula Rasa. We have to prove that it was the work of a terrorist before the good name of the League is dragged through the mud. Questions?"

Bretnor stuck his hand quickly in the air to score some brownie points. "This would be the same Tabula Rasa that took you in for questioning recently, Sir?" everyone in the room glared meaningfully at the assembled superheroes. Price smiled a little, flattered by the loyalty of his 'boys'.

"Let's not dwell on that now, Simon. What happened in the past stays in the past.” Everyone in the room knew that Mr Price had been roughed up by a Tabula Rasa interrogation unit after Dominic Parr, the man once known as Mr Punch, had gone rogue. Price might be a fool, but he had an almost paternal love of his department, and his agents generally appreciated that or, in the case of Bretnor and Gabriel, knew which side of their bread was buttered. “We're here to help our super powered friends." He smiled warmly at Wardog who looked a little uncomfortable by this sudden diversion.

"Just checking the facts, Sir. Thank you, Sir." A few agents laughed. Gabriel suddenly stood up and added:

“Orbital’s not one to bear grudges Sir. We’re all on the same side, Sir!” More suppressed smirks and chuckles emanated from the middle and rear seats.

Chandler stuck his hand up, but Price didn't notice him as he was a little on the short side.

"Yes, you over there in the beige suit - Cross isn't it?"

"Crass, Sir. Lycanthropic division. Do we know who she's working for?" Julian Crass was wearing a fresh carnation button hole that he’d bought from a young lady in Chelsea that morning.

"The Tabula Rasa suspects she may be a revolutionary anarchist! Possibly a member of Black Flagg."

Chandler sighed and waved his hand to be noticed.

"Yes, you, the short little man in the back row."

"Billy Chandler, Sir. Do we shoot her in the head, Sir? Now that we're working for the Tabula Rasa, Sir?"

The men in the room laughed again.

Mr Price was in good humour. "I'll refer that question to Mr Wardog. Do we shoot her in the head, now that we’re working hand in purple glove with the Tabula Rasa?"

"No - we want her alive!" Wardog stood up. These limey bastards were pissing him off. They all thought they were so damn clever, sitting there drinking their tea and smirking. "Listen up you English sissies. This isn't one of your 'do it next Friday' jobs - this is Tabula Rasa work." Wardog turned to look Mr Price in the face, "and by the way, your fucking slide machine is upside down." He turned back to face the Orbital agents. "You will not be sitting around on your fat tea drinking asses - you will be going out there and finding this bitch. Anyone who thinks they can just pussy around will get my foot up their ass. Everyone got that? I don't care what you think of the Tabula Rasa. I don't give a fuck how busy you are. You either find her or you'll all be serving cheese burgers at McSwiney's next month. Ah… I see you've all stopped grinning all of a sudden. Good. And as for the two weasels in the front row…" Wardog pointed at a surprised Bretnor and Gabriel. "You can shut the fuck up too. Got that?" Wardog kicked the flimsy wooden lectern over. "Get out there and get me some results, you fuck wits. And by the way, do you know what we call your piss-ant country in the states? Airstrip One. That’s all you’re good for – landing our warplanes on and refuelling them. Now fuck off and find her."

The Camden free state

Elenor was doing the rounds of the pubs and bars in the Camden area. Exhausted from hours of walking, since she didn't want to waste money on the tube, she asked the same question of each manager that she found.

"I need some bar work. I've got experience. Are you hiring?" The ninth pub said there could be something in a couple of week's time.

"One of the girls will be on holiday for two weeks. We could use you to fill in then."

"I need something now. I don't have much money." She leaned against the dark wood of the bar and played with a beer mat. "No one seems to be hiring."

"Are you surprised? Bar work is in demand. Everyone wants bar work. I could put a sign in the window and get a hundred applicants in half an hour. There's a glue factory three streets away that's hiring girls."

"I don't want to work in a glue factory."

"That's why there's still jobs going. Three twenty an hour. Think about it."

"I have. And I'd like to keep my sense of smell."

"You got a trade?"

"I can write articles about clothes."

"Fuck lot of good that'll do you in Camden. I'm talking making things from wood or metal, plumbing, fixing a car, something useful."

"No… nothing like that." Elenor rummaged through her coat pockets for change. She deposited a dirty fistful of coins onto the counter. "I could do with a drink - it's really cold out there - but I don't have much money."

"I can do you gin n' tonic for a pound, ten."

Elenor counted out some coins and slid them across the bar. "Thanks."

The barman stuck the glass under the optics and topped it up with tonic water. "Look, if you haven't got a skill you're going to find it hard."

"I can fight. Is there any call for that around here? Security or something like that."

The barman looked at the thin girl and laughed. "Maybe you can fight, but you don't look like you can, and the whole point of being a bouncer is to scare the punters so they don't start any trouble in the first place."

"What if I, like, scowl a bit?" Elenor pulled a face.

"That wouldn't scare a mouse, let alone a pack of skin heads."

"This is ridiculous! I've got A levels and a degree! I've read a book by Jean Paul Sartre! There must be something I can do for a living!" As the barman turned to see to another of his customers, Elenor grabbed one of the newspapers left on the bar and took it to a nearby table. She sipped her Gin n’ tonic and flicked rapidly through the pages of the simple tabloid. It was mostly tits and lottery stories, plus scandal in the lives of popular celebrities, but sandwiched between the kiss and tell tales were a few pieces of genuine news. The murder of James Pemberton was big news, and a photograph of Elenor stared out from page two. The headline read The Face of a Murderer! It wasn’t a bad photo, thought Elenor, but she had better ones they could have used. Obviously it had been taken from her personal photo album when police had raided her flat. She read on.

Police are combing the back streets of London for anarchist reactionary, Elenor Hannah Haines, age 25, a woman believed to be a militant member of the revolutionary organisation called Black Flagg. Members of the public are warned that she is dangerous, probably armed, ad prepared to die for her cause.

About par for the course for tabloid reporting, she thought as she read on.

Chief Inspector Carr who is heading the murder investigation added, for years this woman has lived a double life, working as a writer for Chic magazine as a cover for her anarchist ideals. It is only a matter of time before she is found and brought to justice.

Elenor flicked through the pages until her eyes rested on a news story concerning the Mole. The Mole had been a member of Bulldog Drummond’s super group, the League of English Gentlemen that had also included Mr Punch within its ranks. It seemed that the Mole was active in London again. A number of crimes had been thwarted within a half mile radius of a condemned tube station entrance. The paper speculated that it was in these tunnels that the Mole was hiding. The paper went on to give a potted history of the crime fighter’s murky past. His costume it seemed was made of seal skin, stitched together by hand early on in his life. He had once confessed to a love of women’s underwear and used to receive numerous pairs through the post when he was a member of Drummond’s super team. More recently he had been almost killed when Jamaican gangsters had shot him during a bungled drugs deal. But before Mark Jacobs had ever adopted his Mole persona he had been a respected gadget inventor for the Tabula Rasa. Amongst his many achievements were the satellite navigation systems in the Tabula Rasa’s air cars, and the patented Tabula Rasa tracking device. Elenor paused and furrowed her brow. The Tabula Rasa tracking device? The Mole had invented it? She checked the details of the sightings of the Mole – only a couple of miles from here. Elenor finished her drink and got up, a fresh sense of determination adding a spring to her step.

The Camden ‘Free State’ London

Peter Gabriel was technically talking to his counter culture contacts in Camden for news of Elenor Anna Haines. Unfortunately his counter culture contacts consisted of his drug dealer who was currently on holiday in Santa Fe, so he didn’t really have a lot to do. On the other hand he was running low on coke…

“Kashmir blankets and rugs. Genuine blankets from Kashmir!” A young hippie man, naked from the waist up, a fashion disaster from the waist down, was plying his colourful rugs and accessories from a large stall established close to the tunnels in Camden. Top Secret Orbital Agent, Peter Gabriel, began to examine the blankets, marvelling that these things were fashionable again. “That one is a genuine Persian weave. Yours for £600.”

“Yeah? Actually I’m looking for South American goods. Know where I can find any?”

“Wrong stall man, I only deal in Arabian rugs.”

“Yeah, well I’m not actually looking for rugs.” Gabriel moved in closer and began to whisper. “Know what I mean?”

“No man, I don’t.”

“South American goods? Yeah? Colombian maybe?” For fucks sake, did he have to spell it out to this retard?

“I only do blankets, man, from Arabia.”

“Look, I want to buy some coke… cocaine, right? Have you got any coke?”

“You come to the wrong place, man. I don’t do drugs.”

Gabriel was growing very impatient. “Of course you do drugs, you’re a hippie…” He reached into his wallet and showed the man two hundred pounds. “Coke. All I want is coke. No blankets, no rugs – just coke.”

“I think you’d better go man. I don’t want no trouble.”

“Look, I’m not a policeman.” Gabriel raised his designer sunglasses as if to prove he wasn’t an undercover cop on stakeout. “I just want to score. You must know where I can get some coke.”

The hippie turned away to see to another customer.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” Gabriel put the money back into his wallet and moved on.

The London Underground

Quite simply these tunnels reminded Elenor of the Arcadium. She shivered, despite her long black woollen coat, as she shone her maglite down the sloping tunnels. Water dripped in the ink black tunnels, seeping through the cracks in the Victorian built walls and ceilings. Did the Mole really live down here? Elenor walked through deep puddles on the floor, her feet splashing with every step. Central London lay on the Thames alluvial flood plain, hemmed in by hills to the north and south forming hundreds of miles of rivers. The tunnels stank of sewage and mould and damp, but it was the silence that got to Elenor the most. Above ground she was used to the comforting ambient sounds of the city, but down here in the Mole’s kingdom of the blind, the silence seemed artificial and overtly sinister.

Elenor proceeded down the tunnel, unsure where she was supposed to go. All the sightings of the Mole had radiated from this area, so it made sense that he operated close by. But how far did the tunnel system stretch? There was no way on Earth Elenor was going to stray too far. The thought of becoming lost in this dank underworld was frightening even to someone who didn’t suffer from claustrophobia. And ever since her ordeal in the Arcadium, Elenor had most certainly picked up a gnawing fear of dark enclosed spaces. Only the thought of the Tabula Rasa tracking device locked around her ankle forced her to go on. She had no choice – only the Mole could remove this thing without taking her ankle with it.

Elenor’s feet splashed through water that now came up to her ankles. The tunnel floor was sloping down into a shallow depression, possibly caused by subsidence over the years. The dank water had collected here in a small pool. As Elenor pushed on, her foot touched something below the water’s surface. Suddenly a trap was sprung. A wire net exploded out of the water around her. Pistons and gears closed around Elenor, drawing the eight corners of the net quickly together and raising it into the air. Elenor stumbled as the mesh constricted suddenly around her body and pulled her off her feet. It had happened too quickly to do anything. Now she was spun in a horizontal foetal position, suspended five feet above the surface of the tunnel mouth. A petrol driven motor ignited and a crude combustion engine turned a series of pulleys and wheels. The mechanism from which the net hung began to drive along a straight groove in the tunnel ceiling. The motorised net was carrying Elenor through the tunnel and on into the darkness. Without the maglite in her hand Elenor was unable to see a thing. The inky darkness closed around her as tightly as the wire mesh. She screamed, feeling the onset of claustrophobia as she was pulled along through the air. The net motor turned, following the ceiling track, taking Elenor into a side tunnel. Elenor struggled madly, thrashing in the confines of the metal net. She could feel the mesh pressed against her face, constricting tightly. She swayed from the ceiling hook, but nothing she did could break either the net or the motor.

Deeper and deeper the net propelled itself through side tunnel after side tunnel. Panic was mounting as Elenor had no idea where she was going. Gripped with claustrophobia as she was there was no way of tracking the movement of this device. Memories of the Arcadium flashed through her mind – of rooms full of razor wire and buzz saws, and garden mazes filled with poisonous fruit. She yelled and she screamed, but no one and nothing could hear her.

And then the motor device drew the net into a dimly lit chamber. Phosphorescent lichen grew on the walls, bright enough for Elenor to see a pit coming towards her. The net stopped suddenly directly above the pit. Elenor swung helplessly for a second or two before a gear lever retracted and a piston discharged a head of steam. The net was released from the holding bolt and it and its prisoner fell into the pit below. Still enveloped in the constricting net, Elenor landed on a pile of damp and mouldy mattresses.

Now she fought with the strength of the damned. She struggled and clawed her way out of the loose net, pulling the mesh from her face as if she were being strangled. Elenor lay on the pile of mattresses and gazed upwards. The pit was twelve feet deep, more than deep enough to hold a prisoner indefinitely. It had been dug out of the ground as a sewage outlet but had never been finished. Elenor lowered one foot down off the mattress stack and placed it in five inches of freezing black water.

“Help!” she screamed as loudly as she could. “Help me! Can anyone hear me!” Above her the hook mechanism that had held the net hung motionless, its job done.

The mattresses smelt of piss. Whether the piss had been there originally when they had been dragged down from the city rubbish tip, or whether the piss had belonged to the last person who had spent time in the pit was impossible to tell. Elenor lay on the mattress stack, fighting back the sheer waves of terror that clawed at her brain. The claustrophobia was all around her like a black shroud, making it impossible to breathe. She screamed again and again, but still there was no response.

Elenor lay in the hole for five hours before the sound of feet clicking on the cracked stone paving of the tunnel floor attracted her attention. She blinked and stared up into the darkness. That was the sound of high heels?

A slim figure loomed over the mouth of the pit. It was a woman, that much was sure and, as Elenor’s eyes focussed in the dim light, she could se that the figure resembled some sort of fetish-inspired dominatrix. The woman was dressed from head to toe in a shiny black plastic cat suit so tight that it surely had to have been sprayed on. The face of the suit was featureless and mirror smooth. A long mane of fake hair, tied in a pony tail, trailed down the back of the suit almost to the woman’s waist. The feet of the suit ended in sharp stiletto heels. The only part of the suit that wasn’t black was a mustard yellow stripe that ran from the neckline down to the groin. It was the same colour mustard stripe that featured on Elenor’s Argent costume.

“Well, what has the Thames river washed up tonight?” Jocasta stared down into the pit and laughed softly. “Another ragamuffin child stumbles into the Mole’s world. The sick little fuck will be pleased.” The woman’s voice was English and distinctly upper class. A bright light shone down into the pit, forcing Elenor to close her eyes. “And aren’t you the cute one. Oh, but I do like blonde hair.”

Elenor tried to open her eyes, but the fierce light was too strong.

“Stop covering your eyes. I want to look at you.” Jocasta’s voice was full of the authority of the blue blooded rich. After she was satisfied, Jocasta turned her flashlight at an angle so Elenor could see. There was motion behind her as the bulk of a fat squat man entered the chamber. He waddled into view. Like Jocasta he was dressed in glistening black leather, but unlike Jocasta his costume was rather more crudely stitched together. Numerous tools and gadgets hung from his belt and Elenor was sure this had to be the Mole. They presented a peculiar sight – Jocasta tall, slim and leggy, a commanding figure used to authority and power, and the Mole, a rather sad and hunched figure with the look of someone who had been bullied during his childhood.

“Snee snee,” said the Mole as he saw Elenor sitting inside his Mole trap. He rubbed his shiny leather gloved hands together and tweaked his whiskers proudly. His hand went to a small steel box at his belt. Depressing a button, the Mole watched as the pulley and winch system pulled back from the pit as its servo-motors dragged it back towards the section of tunnel where the net trap had been set.

“What have you caught today?” asked Jocasta. “I really didn’t think that stupid gadget would actually work.”

“Mighty Mole, proud prince of boys assured you joyously of his toys!” The man crouched low over the mouth of the pit and peered closer, clicking an optic scope over his eyes that Elenor presumed served as glasses. Small servo-motors whirred in the lenses as they focussed in the gloom. “A girl we see..? Ho, ho… Snee snee…”

“I saw her first. She’s mine.” Jocasta sliced the Mole’s vast rump with a riding crop. He squealed and stepped back dutifully. “Good Mole. Sit!” She pointed with the riding crop to a spot on the floor a few feet away.

Great, thought Elenor. I’m in a hole that belongs to the gimp twins. And no prizes for guessing who’s in charge. She was still feeling dizzy and sick from the sense of being trapped underground. She had to get out of here.

“What are you doing here?” asked Jocasta. “You look a little too clean to be a guttersnipe.”

“A what?”

“Not a guttersnipe then. Come on girl, speak up!” Jocasta’s shrill voice reminded Elenor of Miss Harris, her dreaded Latin teacher in the third year of school. “You’re staying in there until you do!” She slapped her riding crop against her tight black plastic encased thigh.

“I’m Argent. I need to speak to the Mole.” Elenor wasn’t in costume but secret identities were a moot point right now. The Mole was supposed to be a superhero of sorts – maybe he had heard of her.

“You seek to obfuscate with kindly Uncle Mole? You think that though deep below he in truth be some tawdry, simple troll?” The bulk of the man rose and shambled forward to the edge of the pit again. “I smell the scent of a lying Sergeant! He-he, ho- ho wee snipe and in shock behold: Argent!” He indicated the shiny plastic dominatrix figure who seemed to lord it over him with a riding crop.

“Dark Argent you little shit!” She slapped his ass again, somewhat sharper this time. The Mole squealed and twitched his whiskers.

“Dark Argent?” said Elenor. “What the hell has been going on in London while I’ve been away?”

Now Jocasta shone her flashlight directly in Elenor’s face again. Elenor closed her eyes and turned her face away from the intense halogen light.

“Stop that!” barked Jocasta. “Show me your face!”

“The light’s too bright!” shouted Elenor. “I can’t see!”

“You don’t have to see! Move your hand away! Now!”

Elenor looked up, her eyes still tightly closed. She could still feel the light even through her eyelids.

“Well now… there does seem to be a reasonable resemblance. Argent you say?”

“Yes! And what’s with your Dark Argent name? Did I start a franchise or something?”

“Quiet!” Jocasta’s voice boomed in the tight acoustically amplified chamber. She really did sound like all the worst teachers Elenor had experienced all rolled into one. “You answer my questions, that’s all, otherwise we leave you there. Do you understand me, girl?”

“Yes.”

The Mole was making a sort of affectionate slobbering sound as he knelt beside Jocasta. She patted his sleek head with a sense of distaste.

“What do you want from my Mole?”

“I… I have a tracking device locked around my ankle. The Tabula Rasa put it there. I can’t remove it without making it explode. I heard the Mole created the device.” Elenor dug her hands deep into the pockets of her coat. “I need it removed. People are trying to kill me.”

“Let’s see it.”

Elenor sat down on the mattress and unlaced her boot. She drew it off her foot as the halogen light shone painfully down into the pit. Then, rolling up her trouser leg she extended her foot. The smooth, clean steel could clearly be seen it in the bright light.

“Is that one of yours?” asked Jocasta of the Mole.

“Ah, gladsome joy! A Moley toy…” he nodded proudly.

“Please, do you know how to remove it?” Elenor still couldn’t see.

“Mole can unlock it from your leg, but first he would like to see you beg…” he looked up for Jocasta’s approval. Behind her smooth plastic face she was smiling.

“Good Mole. You’re learning. Treat the little shits the way they deserve. Remind them of their place in society.”

Elenor rolled her trouser leg down and stuck her foot back inside her boot. “Look, I’m prepared to pay you. How much do you want?”

“Sniffle! Snarfle! Sit up and beg! Then may the kindly Mole attend to the troublesome leg..?”

Just wait until I get out of this pit, thought Elenor quietly. But then in a conciliatory voice she said, “Please, Mole, I need your help. Help me, please!”

“That’s not what I call begging, girl,” said Jocasta, but it seemed to be enough for her partner. He scuttled to the side of the cave and produced a hooked ladder that he lowered down to the bottom of the wet pit. He hooked the side of the ladder to small grooves set in the edge. Elenor quickly clambered up the ladder, shivering from the cold air in this place.

The Mole reached into a heavy belt pouch for his tools. Before his superhero days he had been one of the most dedicated gadget inventors for the Tabula Rasa. The tracking device had been one of his early inventions. “Snee snee. A service rendered enriches old Moley’s coffer – what will the desperate petitioner offer?” The Mole began to plug some probes into a hand held scanner.

“How much?” Elenor knew she didn’t have any money to speak of, but this was life or death. If necessary she would steal the money from a bank. She had done enough good deeds in her life to get away with a crime of necessity.

Jocasta moved silently behind Elenor and placed a hand on Elenor’s hip. She drew Elenor back towards her and whispered into her ear, “Be nice to me and I’ll tell my Mole to do it for free.”

Elenor twisted violently out of Jocasta’s grip and shouted in an outraged voice, “get your filthy hands off me, you utter lesbian!”

“So touchy…” Jocasta stroked the inside of Elenor’s leg with the tip of her riding crop.

“I’m warning you!” Elenor took a step back as Jocasta gazed at the swell of her breasts. Jocasta just laughed. A hand suddenly touched Elenor’s arm and, charged up with adrenaline as she was, Elenor spun right round and thumped the Mole who was only trying to attract her attention. The lardy superhero in the tightly stitched sealskin costume fell back and hit the wall. “Oh my god! I’m sorry! I’m so sorry…” Elenor helped him up. “I’m just a little nervous down here.”

“She strikes, she spits - so like the others! They grimace, they sneer, at the rotund band of brothers. Our portly frame in truth offends – the Mole he lives with so few friends…” the Mole seemed suddenly very pitiful and not quite so frightening.

“I’m sorry… it’s just… look, I just want to get this over and done with and get out of here.”

“Poor Uncle Mole his feelings flayed… before all else the price needs must be paid!”

“How much?”

“Not money, you little slut.” Jocasta leaned against the Mole. “There’s only one thing my Mole wants from you. Your panties and bra.”

“Snee snee…” the Mole was sweating with excitement.

“You have got to be joking!” Elenor looked disgusted. “He wants my underwear?”

“Snee, snee… sniff, sniff?”

“Tell him to stop doing that… it sounds disgusting!”

“That’s his price. That’s what he collects,” said Jocasta. “Now do you want that tracking device removed or not? There’s no point throwing your weight around. Mole will just blow your foot off if you annoy him.”

Elenor threw her hands in the air as if this was the final straw. “Fuck it. Fine…” she very rarely resorted to swearing. “Of course he wants to sniff my panties… it all makes perfect sense… my life is just one nightmare after another.” She turned to face Jocasta. “The light goes off until I say otherwise, and…”

“Don’t forget who is in charge here…” warned Jocasta in a shrill voice edged with menace. “One word from me and Mole will cut the wrong wire…”

“The light…” Elenor bared her teeth, “goes off. Don’t push me…”

Jocasta held her riding crop in both hands. Her smug smile was hidden behind her liquid face plate. “Shall we just wait here then until the Tabula Rasa come for you?”

“Snee snee… the scent, the scent!” the Mole was wringing his hands with excitement.

Elenor turned round with her back to the gimp twins. She bent down and unlaced her boots. Still wearing her long coat she pulled her trousers down and peeled off her black knickers. She pulled her trousers back on and slipped out of the coat.

“Snee snee… dirty girls… b-b-b-big pants…”

Any sense of claustrophobia was banished now by sheer blinding rage. Elenor pulled her crème coloured top over her head and undid the clasps on her bra. Then she quickly drew the sweater back on and stuck her arms back through her coat sleeves. “There!” she threw her underwear at the Mole. “Now get this thing off me!”

It took the Mole less than three minutes to remove the anklet safely with his tools. Elenor took the open tracking device from his gloved hands and shoved it in her pocket. It could prove useful still as a decoy. The Mole now had Elenor’s panties pressed against his nose.

“I don’t fucking believe this…” Elenor rammed her feet into her boots and laced them up. She got up and looked for the way out.

“Left, left, right and left again then straight above. Move not from the path lest a year you spend in Moley’s den of love. Sniffity sniff.” said the Mole as he gazed up with the black panties draped across his whiskers. “Snortle.”

Elenor took a single step and then paused. “Oh… I nearly forgot.” She turned round slowly and took a couple of paces back towards Jocasta who stood beside the Mole, swishing her riding crop suggestively. Elenor smiled, and then she punched Jocasta straight in the face. Jocasta hit the ground instantly. Elenor had used a full strength chi punch from the waist.

“I don’t…” began Elenor, snarling her words, “EVER want to see you again!” And then she left.

“Rub rub. Snee snee…”

The Camden free state

It was dark now but at night Camden truly came alive. Licensing laws meant nothing in Camden and consequently the bars remained open 24 hours a day. Many hip Londoners chose to slum it here as Elenor had once done in Brixton. And where there were men and women with wallets, there too were the beggars. No money and no obvious job prospects left Elenor with little option. She stepped past a hunched figure that sat in a boarded up doorway on a flat piece of wet cardboard. He lay huddled under some dirty blankets with a flat cap on the pavement beside his foot. In a low voice he mumbled, “spare change. Any spare change.” A few coins lay in his hat, probably ones he had put there in the morning.

Elenor shook her head and stepped quickly up towards a young man in a suit. She gave him a warm and friendly smile. "Hi, look, sorry to trouble you. I'm Elenor and, well, I'm hoping you could spare me a little change for a cup of coffee. The thing is, I know you probably get asked that a lot, and yes everyone who asks you probably spends the money on drugs, but the thing is I don't do drugs, and I actually will spend it on coffee." Elenor fidgeted as she spoke. "Because I'm really broke, and it's cold, and I could do with a coffee right now."

"You haven't been begging very long, have you?"

"Nope. Not really."

"What kind of coffee?"

"A Mocha would be nice."

"Here's a quid. Good luck." The man walked on.

"This isn't so difficult, thought Elenor as she pocketed the coin. She walked towards her next target: a woman who was walking past her. “Excuse me…”

The woman turned round and Elenor’s voice trailed off.

“Hello Elenor,” said the woman warmly. It was Alyson Price.

They were walking down some side streets away from the main Camden high streets. Elenor was confused. The last time she had seen Alyson, her friend was stamping away, calling Elenor a slut. They had parted on bad terms – none of it Elenor’s fault, but now it was as if the words in New Mexico had never been spoken. Elenor felt awkward. Should she refer to the events in America or not?

“It’s great to see you again, Ellie. So much has happened since I got back to London. You won’t believe…”

Elenor interrupted her friend. There had been a sound somewhere up ahead in the alley way. Few of the street lights worked down here and Elenor suddenly found herself feeling nervous.

“Alyson, I think we should get back onto the main streets. We shouldn’t be wandering around here so late at night.” Another sound, like a foot accidentally rolling an empty milk bottle.

“You worry too much Ellie. It’s quicker this way. I’ve got a small apartment a few blocks away, and we’ve got so much catching up to do.”

Elenor glanced nervously around as she walked beside her friend. “I tried calling you Alyson, but your phone was disconnected, and I was told you quit your job.”

“I don’t need the job anymore. That was the old me. So much has changed since we were in America.”

“Changed? Alyson, it’s only been a few weeks. What’s happened? I mean it’s good to see you again, and I’m pleased you’re no longer angry with me, but…” Elenor froze. Now there was a sound behind her. “Alyson, we really need to find the main road again.”

But too late.

"Evening ladies. Nice night for a stroll." The men were blocking off the exit. Two other men emerged from a hole in the wooden fence behind Elenor and Alyson. The alley way was tight and narrow. There was little light and no one around who would care if they heard a couple of women screaming. "We'll have that nice coat you're wearing and any money you happen to be carrying, luv." The gang leader watched Elenor take a couple of steps back. "There's nowhere to run to so don't piss me off."

Elenor considered the situation and came to the only sensible conclusion. With her sonic scream temporarily powerless, there was no point in taking these men on. Maybe alone she could take a couple down, but Alyson would be a liability. Elenor turned to her friend and sighed.

"Give them what they want and let's not make a scene." Elenor knew she only had spare change anyway. The coat would be a loss, but it could be replaced from a charity shop. Alyson's response to the men was therefore something of a surprise.

“I’m not giving these scum anything.” She stood her ground defiantly.

The leader produced a snub nosed pistol and pointed it at the women. "Very foolish words, love." He pulled the safety catch back and held it sideways, gangster fashion.

"For God's sake Alyson, don't cause a scene. I can't fight them and protect you. I don't have my scream at the moment." But Alyson wasn't listening to her friend.

"Put that gun away or I'll shove it up your ass, you little fuck wit." She pointed at the gunman. Elenor couldn't believe her ears.

"Fuck you, bitch." The man shot Alyson at point blank range, once, twice, three times. The gunshots boomed in the cold evening air. Alyson was flung back, blood squirting from her chest where the bullets tore straight through her. The look of shock was etched across her face as she fell.

Elenor screamed and dived to one side as the man now turned his gun on her. She picked up a dustbin lid and threw it like a frisbee. The iron lid chopped the gun from his hand, breaking a few fingers in the process. Enraged by the murder of her best friend, Elenor threw caution to the wind and charged the three men standing directly in front of her. She ducked low and chopped with her fingers at an exposed solar plexus. Down went her target. Turning quickly, Elenor spun a high kick into the leader's face as he nursed his injured hand. The third man drew a switch blade and stabbed at Elenor, catching her long flapping coat. The blade remained trapped in the fabric as Elenor twisted and head butted him in the face. She grabbed hold of the lapels of his jacket and brought her forehead down again on the bridge of his nose, snapping it. She threw him backwards and span a series of butterfly punches into his body in quick succession.

There were shouts from the other side of the alley now as the remaining men closed in. One of the men seized Elenor from behind, trapping her arms in a brutal hug, while the other man lifted an iron pipe. He stabbed her in the stomach with the end of the pipe. Elenor screamed in pain and lifted her legs. She kicked out but her assailant had stepped back and now he brought the iron pipe down on the ankle of her left foot. Elenor could feel her leg go numb. The man holding her was a heavy squat thug with a sloping forehead and numerous scars. He squeezed tightly and bit deep into her right ear. Elenor was unable to bring her arms into play and a backwards head butt failed to connect properly. She felt herself lifted up into the air until her feet couldn't touch the ground. She felt the man with the iron pipe smack her in the gut again and now everything was going grey. He raised the iron bar once more, intending to beat her brains out, but suddenly a hand appeared and plucked the weapon from his hand with effortless ease. Alyson stood beside him, her body soaked in blood.

"Hello fuckwit," she said calmly. And then she hit him. The punch tore the front of his face from his head. She moved quickly, her body blurring as she repeatedly punched him seven times as he hit the ground. Then she jumped seven feet into the air from a standing position and kicked out with one leg. Her foot struck the head of the man holding Elenor and snapped it violently back. The impact of the blow broke his neck instantly. Elenor fell backwards on top of his dead body, his arms still locked around her in a limp grip. Alyson landed on the ground and span gracefully.

"Alyson… you were shot dead… you tore his face off…" Elenor struggled to free herself.

"Things have changed Elenor! I'm a superhero now, just like you, only stronger, faster and tougher. Isn't it great!" She pulled Elenor up off the floor with a single hand. “It’s all right - I forgive you for seducing Alex and stealing him from me. None of that matters anymore, because we're equals now. We can be friends again now that we've both got super powers. Oh, but we're going to have so much fun together…"