Chapter 9
Leah Parker
Under the wooziness of drugs, Leah Parker stumbled as the ground shifted beneath her feet.
She paused and cocked her head to the side, disorientated for a moment by the moving concrete.
A blister burned against her heel. The boots she had bought from a charity store were fake leather and half a size too small, but she had loved the look of them, and they were all she could afford.
She squatted down and pulled at the heel, trying to take the pressure off the blister.
The ground swayed again as she straightened and squinted into the night.
Bitter wind blustered against her skin, stinging her bleary, bloodshot eyes.
Churning clouds brooded against the darkness, making it so dark it was hard to see past the washed-out glow of a couple of streetlights that remained working.
All around were signs of poverty, run-down, abandoned buildings, cracked pavements and rubbish.
It was an area she knew well, a haven for the homeless and people intimate with cocaine.
She wondered for a moment if she should turn back and walk along the block, then over the bridge where she’d at least be in the light and seen by passing cars.
But that would add another fifteen minutes to her walk and the blister was stinging like someone had taken an inch-wide razor to her heel.
Besides, she needed to get home to her children.
At the thought of them, she suffered a flash of guilt, a gnawing in her gut, a feeling of doing something wrong.
She chewed on her bottom lip for a moment, trying to recall …
Then she remembered she needed to buy them dinner.
Leah shoved a hand in her jacket pocket, fumbling around for money.
Her fingers tapped on the chocolate bar she’d bought for them to share.
She checked her other pocket, but it was empty, all her money gone.
But they had bread in the cupboard. She was a good mother. She was. She truly was.
Not like her mother had been.
She was fourteen and her brother was seven when they were taken from their parents and placed into foster care.
She thought she’d be safe then, thought she’d be given food, thought she would finally be able to sleep at night.
She only met more monsters. An aunty came and took her brother, gave him a home filled with love.
But they didn’t want her. She was too damaged, too wild, they said.
No one wanted her. Not for anything good, at least.
Her brother loved her though. They were close when they were younger and he found her again when he was old enough.
It was good for a while; it made Leah happy to know someone in her family cared about her.
But then tragedy struck and he had to be locked up for years.
He had come back not long ago wanting to reconnect with her and the kids.
Leah wasn’t sure at first, but he seemed to have changed …
he seemed better … he seemed safe now. She’d agreed to let him meet the kids soon.
She hoped they could be close again and he’d give them the love no one in the family had given her.
Leah wrapped her arms around herself and kept walking.
Body odour, rot, and the stench of urine choked the air as she passed a homeless man crouched over a burning pot of fire.
He barely gave her a sideways glance. She passed another man hunched against a wall on an alleyway floor, his shaved head bowed.
His skin was the color of snow, large, festering sores marking his face.
There was a blue rubber tourniquet around his bruised arm, and a needle still hung like a spear from the skin.
Just another addict in a sea of addicts.
Humans sprawled on the gray floor, grim reapers waiting to die.
She passed a group of boys who wanted to be gangsters, legends in their own lunchtimes, dressed in black hoodies and ripped jeans, with tattooed skin.
One, a weedy-looking boy with an olive complexion and eyes the color of dirt, had a permanently marked red teardrop tattooed under his right eye.
She felt the boys scan her body—she was beautiful, after all.
She could have been a model, if the world wasn’t so cruel.
Leah Parker supermodel extraordinaire—it held a ring to it.
A smile tugging at her lips, she straightened her shoulders and tried to align her legs to resemble the strut of a model down a catwalk.
Despite the ground’s relentless shifting, she was in fact pretty good at it.
Laughter echoed against the night, the sound not sweet but sinister to her ears.
Leah paused before a large concrete bridge.
The light from the streetlights didn’t reach all the way through.
She squinted. She could make out thick old pillars covered in crudely painted graffiti, but the rest was bathed in darkness so thick it was like looking into an abyss.
Turn back, a voice in her head whispered.
Chills roiled through her body. The voice was familiar; she’d heard it speak to her before.
It was cold and archaic and unearthly, as if the devil himself whispered in her ear.
It hadn’t spoken to her for years; alcohol and heroine ensured it was drowned out.
When she was a child, it used to frighten her.
Her mother always told her she was mad, that she was making it all up.
Maybe she was right. After all, she’d been right when she told Leah she was worthless and stupid.
Still, she couldn’t shake a sense of dread that was curdling in the pit of her stomach.
Leah bit her bottom lip and her gaze drifted back. She looked past the shadowy outline of the boys talking in a group, past the old man, to the distant lights pinching through the blackness.
But it was stupid to get herself worked up. She’d walked the night for almost as long as she’d been alive, and no harm had ever come to her on the streets. And she was exhausted. She just wanted to get home and crawl into bed.
Leah stepped under the bridge. Cars crossing above quaked its old bones, causing motes of dust to drift down, sprinkling her blonde hair and hazing her vision.
Footsteps on the pavement somewhere behind her.
Leah’s heart startled. She whipped her head around, staring into the dark, seeking the source of the noise. Strips of fire tore orange through the night like a tiger’s claws. But she couldn’t see anyone close by. Nothing to worry about, she told herself. She turned—
A wolf exploded out of the night.
Leah reared sideways so abruptly she almost lost her footing, only a column she smacked into keeping her upright. She tried to cry out, but her throat constricted and all she could manage was a gasp.
The wolf receded back into the wall. It took her a moment to realize it was just a fucking painting. Her hand flew to her fast-beating heart, a soft laugh leaving her lips. The drugs were fucking with her head.
Leah took a few shaky breaths and picked up her pace.
Tap, tap, tap echoed against the thick underground of the bridge. Heavy footfalls, more than one.
Her heart kicked up again. She spun back and stared under the deep shadows of the bridge.
It was too dark to see anything past a few feet in front of her.
She’d never had trouble on the streets before, she reminded herself, never had anything bad happen to her there.
At home, behind closed doors was where the danger always lurked.
Which reminded her—she really needed to get home to her children.
They were safe at home—she made sure no one had ever hurt them—but they might be worried about her.
She smiled at the image of Billy’s hazel eyes lighting up when she walked into the house.
How he’d always ask her if she’d bought him chocolate. She patted the chocolate in her pocket.
Two silhouettes stood directly in front of her.
She halted abruptly and blinked.
“Where are you going, girl?” one of the men asked.
Leah squinted. She could barely make out his face, but his eyes were cold and dark as coal, there was a blade tattooed on his neck, and worse, there was a menace in his tone that stirred dread within her.
Leah stumbled backwards and into someone’s hard chest.
“Careful,” he breathed, reeking of the acidy scent of stale wine that burned over the side of her face. “I wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself.”
Her heart pounded and her throat dried. “I have to get home to my kids.” To her dismay, her voice sounded like a kitten whining.
“How about a blow job first?” the one in the front said.
“Fuck off,” Leah responded, pleased her voice sounded strong this time.
The one from behind grabbed her hair and yanked her head back. She didn’t have time to think about the pain tearing through her scalp because he kicked the back of her knee. Her legs collapsed, agony exploding up her legs as her knees cracked on the pavement.
“I think he said he wants a blow job, whore.”
She scanned wildly, desperately seeking help. There was an old man by the edge of the bridge wrapped in a threadbare blanket, looking at her. He’d help her, he’d call the police or shout, and the men would let her go. He dropped his head to the ground and shuffled away.
No one else was looking, or if they did notice they didn’t care. No one had ever cared, not for her. Not once as she sobbed and pleaded for help had anyone come and saved her.
The wind rattled under the eaves of the bridge and began to whine, a prelude to something sinister. She knew then, she knew; that voice was screaming.