Milly

Monday 6th March 1989

Milly Marshall stood on the pavement outside Islington Central Library and checked her reflection in the glass doors for the third time. The new grey suit still felt stiff at the elbows. She had chosen it carefully the previous Saturday with her father, Jonathan, who had hovered nearby offering quiet opinions about hem lengths and whether the fabric would crease on the bus. At five foot two she had always felt the need to compensate, so polished black high-heeled court shoes were non-negotiable. Her light brown hair, threaded with auburn highlights, was pinned back in a neat low twist that she hoped looked professional rather than severe. Olive-green eyes stared back at her, wide and a little uncertain.

She pushed the door open.

The library smelled of old paper, floor polish and the faint metallic tang of radiators that had only just been switched on against the March chill. Kathleen Bentley was already behind the main desk, sorting returns with the brisk efficiency of someone who had performed the same routine for the better part of thirty years. Salt-and-pepper hair was drawn into a practical knot, and her watery blue eyes softened the moment she looked up and saw Milly.

“Ah, there you are, my dear. Right on time.” Kathleen’s voice carried the gentle authority of a woman who had never needed to raise it. She wore a sensible navy cardigan over a cream blouse, and her well-polished brown brogues clicked softly as she came round the desk. “I’ve put you on the issue desk with me this morning. Anything you’re unsure about, just ask. We’ll have you sorted in no time.”

The promise settled something anxious in Milly’s chest. She had never worked anywhere more demanding than the university bookshop during the holidays, and the idea of being responsible for other people’s library tickets and overdue fines still felt slightly alarming.

The morning passed in a gentle rhythm of stamping dates, answering soft-voiced queries about the local history section, and learning the particular geography of Islington’s shelves. At half past ten, Milly fetched her handbag from the staff cupboard and produced the mug she had bought specially the day before. It was white, chunky, and printed in cheerful navy letters:

Librarian – because ‘Book Wizard’ isn’t an official title

Kathleen laughed when she saw it, a warm, genuine sound that made her watery eyes crinkle.

“That’s going straight into the staff kitchen,” she declared. “It’ll make a change from all the serious ones.”

The kitchen was a narrow, slightly shabby room at the back of the building with a Formica worktop the colour of weak tea and a kettle that took an age to boil. While the water heated, Milly glanced at the wall calendar hanging above the sink. A faded photograph of bluebell woods still showed February 1988. She frowned, then made a quiet mental note to mention it to Kathleen later. They almost certainly had the new one somewhere, waiting to be put up once someone remembered.

By the time the library closed at half past five, Milly’s feet ached in her new shoes and her head felt pleasantly full of call numbers and reservation slips. Kathleen walked her to the door.

“You did very well today,” she said. “Tomorrow we’ll look at the catalogue system properly. Go home and put your feet up.”

The bus home was crowded with the usual Monday evening mix of tired office workers and schoolchildren. Milly found a seat near the back and watched the streets of north London slide past the window.

Her new flat occupied a quiet corner of an old early Victorian mansion halfway down Wentworth Gardens in Bounds Green. It was only two rooms and a tiny kitchen, but it was hers. Jonathan had spent the previous weekend assembling the flat-pack furniture with the meticulous care of an architect who genuinely enjoyed aligning screws and checking spirit levels. Before leaving, he had presented her with a folder containing the boiler manual, emergency numbers, the name of a reliable plumber, and a note explaining that Mrs Patel downstairs had a spare key, just in case.

Tonight the flat felt especially welcoming. The central heating clicked on with a soft whoosh as she stepped inside. She kicked off her heels, hung her suit jacket carefully over the back of the bedroom door, and changed into soft old jeans and a jumper that still smelled faintly of her parents’ house.

In the kitchen she set a pan of water to boil and began chopping Mediterranean vegetables: red peppers, courgettes, aubergines and a handful of cherry tomatoes that had softened slightly in the fruit bowl. She cooked them slowly with garlic and a splash of olive oil until they were soft and sweet, then stirred through pasta and three kinds of cheese: mozzarella, crumbled feta, and a generous grating of mature cheddar. Soon the flat was filled with the comforting smell of hot food.

She ate on the sofa with a tray on her lap, the television murmuring quietly in the background although she wasn’t really watching. Afterwards she washed up, dried her hands, and curled into the corner of the sofa with the thick paperback copy of The Count of Monte Cristo she had been saving for evenings exactly like this. The pages were soft from previous readings. The story of Edmond Dantès always felt like coming home.

Somewhere around the part where Dantès first set foot on the island of Monte Cristo, Milly’s eyes grew heavy. The book slipped sideways against her chest. Outside, the March night settled over the quiet street, and the new junior librarian slept the deep, uncomplicated sleep of someone who still believed the world was, on the whole, a manageable and kindly place.

Tuesday 7th March 1989

The rain began before dawn and showed no sign of stopping. By the time Milly left home, the sky was the colour of wet slate and the gutters were already running full. She had chosen her largest umbrella that morning, a sturdy black one her father had insisted she take when she first moved in, and she was glad of it. Even so, the wind kept trying to turn it inside out as she hurried along the pavement towards the bus stop, her high heels clicking sharply on the wet paving stones.

Islington Central Library felt warmer and more familiar on her second day. Kathleen Bentley was already at the issue desk, her brown brogues polished to a military shine, and greeted Milly with the same quiet warmth as the day before. The hours passed easily. A pair of new members, both elderly women with shopping trolleys, noticed the Book Wizard mug when Milly made herself a mid-morning coffee and laughed aloud at the slogan. Kathleen merely smiled.

“I told you it would be a hit.”

Because the rain showed no intention of easing, Kathleen allowed her to leave twenty minutes early.

“No sense in you getting soaked for the sake of a few more date stamps,” she said. “Go on home, love.”

Outside, the bus queue was a damp, miserable scrum. Every bus that pulled up was already packed solid, faces pressed against steamed-up windows. After the third full double-decker sailed past without stopping, Milly decided she would rather walk than stand in the rain any longer. She was certain she knew the way back to Bounds Green. She had walked it once with her father the previous week, map in hand, and the route had seemed straightforward enough.

Twenty minutes later, she was no longer certain of anything.

The streets had become narrower and quieter. Residential terraces gave way to unfamiliar side roads with no shops and barely any working streetlights. Her high heels were soaked through, the leather dark and heavy, and every step sent a cold ache through the balls of her feet. She was wet to the skin despite the umbrella, her hair beginning to escape its neat twist in damp curling strands. When she finally admitted to herself that she was thoroughly lost, a small knot of panic tightened beneath her ribs.

Then she saw the pub.

It stood at the end of a poorly lit stretch of road, its sign hanging at a slight angle, the faded lettering still clearly reading Public House. A long, uneven line of motorcycles occupied most of the pavement outside, chrome and black paint gleaming beneath the lone working streetlamp. Milly hesitated only for a moment before folding her umbrella and picking her way carefully between the machines. The door was heavy and sticky with old varnish. She pushed it open and stepped inside.

The air hit her first: warm, beery, thick with the smell of wet leather and cigarette smoke. Rock music pounded from a jukebox in the corner, something loud and snarling that she did not recognise. She would have preferred Kylie Minogue or Sonia or even Rick Astley. Anything with a proper tune. A few heads turned as she entered, then turned away again. She kept close to the wall, trying to look as though she belonged, and scanned the room for someone who might give her directions without making her feel foolish.

That was when she saw him.

A huge man was striding towards her from the far end of the bar. He had to be well over six feet tall. Bald, heavily tattooed, and somewhere in his forties, he was built like someone who could have shifted the jukebox single-handed. His black leather vest was covered in patches she did not understand. Before she could lose her nerve, Milly stepped forward.

“Excuse me...” she began.

She never finished the sentence.

A pair of strong hands closed around her waist from behind. In one smooth, unstoppable movement she was lifted clean off her feet and slung over a broad shoulder as though she weighed nothing at all. A startled little shriek escaped her.

“Hey! Put me down! You can’t just...”

“Easy, sweetheart,” a deep voice said above her head. “Don’t rely on that scuzz-bucket for directions. He’ll get you dead in a ditch.”

She twisted enough to catch a glimpse of long, wavy blond hair and a leather-clad back as she was carried straight out of the pub and into the rain. Over the man’s shoulder she saw the bald biker staring after them, his face dark with anger. Then the door swung shut behind them and the music was cut off.

The blond man strode between the motorcycles without slowing. He stopped beside a large, low machine, swung one long leg over it, and lowered her carefully, but firmly, onto the seat in front of him, side-saddle with her legs dangling over one side of the petrol tank. The smell of petrol, wet leather and something darker, oil, metal, perhaps danger itself, rose around her.

She could see him more clearly now.

He looked a little younger than the bald biker and perhaps a little shorter, although not by much.

“I’m only going to get you home safe,” he said. His blue eyes were steady, almost calm. “You can trust me. Name’s Venom. Marlon Vaughn. Highgate Hounds. That charming character you were about to ask for directions was Devlin Asher. Desperado to his mates. Kings Cross Kings. You wouldn’t have liked the way he gives directions.”

Milly’s heart was still hammering. She was wet, cold, missing the ground beneath her feet, and entirely out of her depth. Yet something in the quiet certainty of his voice made her hesitate just long enough for him to settle a spare helmet onto her head and fasten the strap beneath her chin.

“Wentworth Gardens,” she managed in a small voice. “Bounds Green. Halfway down. The old Victorian place.”

He nodded once, kicked the engine into life, and the motorcycle roared forward into the rain.

The ride became a blur of cold wind, flying water and the deep vibration of the machine beneath her. She clung to the edge of the seat, her high heels dangling uselessly, and tried not to think about how completely she had placed herself in the hands of a stranger. At last the motorcycle slowed and stopped outside the quiet early Victorian mansion. Venom killed the engine, swung off, and lifted her down as easily as he had picked her up.

It was only when her stockinged foot touched the wet pavement that she realised one high heel was missing.

Venom glanced at her bare foot, then back at her face. Rain ran from the ends of his long blond hair.

“You’re safe now you’ve met me,” he said. “I’ll be seeing you soon. Get inside so I can say I watched you through the door.”

Milly hobbled up the short path, fumbled her key into the lock with trembling fingers, and stepped into the familiar hallway of her flat. Behind her, the motorcycle engine snarled back to life. She heard it accelerate hard before the sound faded quickly into the rain-soaked night.

She stood dripping on the doormat for a long moment, confused, shaken, and oddly relieved that the man who called himself Venom had done exactly what he had promised. Then she locked the door, kicked off her remaining high heel, and went straight to the bathroom.

Hot water. Dry clothes. A simple hot meal. An early night.

She told herself that tomorrow she would make absolutely certain she caught the bus.

Wednesday 8th March 1989

The morning was blessedly dry. Pale March sunlight filtered through the gaps in the curtains of her flat, and for the first time since the weekend Milly did not have to wrestle with an umbrella. She dressed carefully in a fresh charcoal suit, another pair of high heels, and a neat navy handbag that had escaped the previous day’s soaking. Her light brown hair, threaded with auburn highlights, was pinned back once more, and she checked her reflection twice before locking the flat door behind her.

The feeling that someone was watching arrived the moment the key turned.

She turned slowly.

Standing on the pavement a few yards away was the bald, heavily tattooed biker she had last seen inside the dimly lit pub.

Devlin “Desperado” Asher.

President of the Kings Cross Kings.

In daylight he seemed even larger than she remembered, nearer to six and a half foot, and the sheer size of him made her feel smaller than usual. His black leather vest was dark with age, the patches catching the weak March sunlight. Hazel eyes regarded her without either smile or threat, only a steady, unreadable intensity.

Milly’s stomach tightened.

“I mean you no harm,” he said, his voice low and rough. “But after what happened yesterday, I needed to make sure you were all right.”

Quite calmly, he explained that he had had her followed the previous evening to make certain Venom had taken her home and not somewhere far worse. He was here now, he said, because he did not trust Marlon “Venom” Vaughn of the Highgate Hounds as far as he could throw him. Venom had taken a liking to her. That much was obvious. And that fact alone worried Desperado more than he cared to admit.

“I’m offering to get you to work and back,” he continued. “Nothing more. I’ll keep my distance once you’re safely inside. Unlike him.”

Milly’s first instinct was to refuse. Venom had warned her specifically about this man. Yet Desperado’s words were measured, almost careful, and there was something in the way he stood, still, patient, waiting, that made her hesitate. She was, as she had always been, inclined to believe people until they gave her a solid reason not to.

“Venom told me not to trust you,” she said quietly.

“I know.”

A flicker of something, irritation perhaps, or dark amusement, crossed his face.

“That’s exactly why you should listen to me. All I want is to see you get to work and home again without trouble. Once Venom loses interest, I’ll leave you alone. You have my word.”

She studied him for a long moment before giving a small, uncertain nod.

“Islington Central Library.”

Desperado inclined his head, stepped across to the large motorcycle waiting at the kerb, and helped her climb on behind him with surprising gentleness for a man of his size.

“Hold on tight.”

She did.

The leather of his vest was warm beneath her hands, and as the engine rumbled to life she caught the scent of his cologne mingled with leather and the faint, familiar smell of tobacco. For reasons she could not explain, the combination felt oddly comforting.

The ride was shorter than the previous night’s and far less terrifying. Desperado rode with controlled power rather than reckless speed, and before she quite realised it they were pulling up outside the library. He killed the engine and turned his head slightly.

“What time do you finish?”

“Five o’clock.”

“I’ll be here.”

She thanked him. A shadow of a smile, barely there and gone almost at once, touched the corner of his mouth. Then she slid off the motorcycle, smoothed her skirt, and walked towards the library steps.

Across the road, leaning against a low wall with his arms folded, stood Venom.

Long blond hair stirred in the light breeze.

Their eyes met for the briefest of moments.

Milly did not know whether to smile, wave, or simply pretend she had not seen him. In the end she did none of those things. She lowered her gaze and pushed open the library door.

Inside, the familiar smell of books and floor polish closed around her, yet the comfort it usually brought felt thinner than before. She was beginning to understand, with a quiet, growing unease, that she had somehow wandered into the middle of something she did not understand at all.