HIM

I’m still sitting in the car outside when I see her suddenly emerge from the side alley. The mob has dispersed somewhat, but there are still a few stragglers. I put my hand on the door handle, ready to jump out and intervene but before they make it to her, she hails a cab and gets one almost immediately.

“Henry, follow that taxi and whatever you do, don’t lose it.”

“Sir.” Henry acknowledges and pulls into traffic, ignoring a horn blaring in protest.

Where could she be going at this time? It didn’t look like she was carrying any work with her. Is she ill? Is she going back to the hospital?

The drive seems to go on forever, but Henry has driven for more exciting clients than me, and he never loses sight of the cab, while hanging back enough to not be too conspicuous to an observer.

I sit back, making sure she’s always there. I’m amazed how the city scape changes as we turn onto FDR Drive and cruise along the river. Soon it becomes Harlem River Drive, and the buildings become older, with faded posters, torn and shredded, barely hanging onto the billboards, and more and more apartment blocks appearing shuttered and run down. We cross the bridge and turn into neighborhoods I’ve rarely been to, despite living in New York City my entire life.

“Where are we, Henry?”

“We’re turning into the West Bronx, Mr. Ashley.”

The traffic is sparser now, and Henry hangs further back to avoid detection. It’s hard for the car not to stand out though, against the graffitied walls and gutted cars piled up in empty parking lots.

“Good thing we didn’t take the limo this morning, Mr. Ashley.”

“You’re not wrong, Henry.”

“You sure we should be here, sir?”

“Not by choice, my man. But let’s just keep going. Don’t lose the cab.”

“Of course, sir.”

We turn off a main street into a small, dark alley. The cab stops about 50 feet ahead and Henry pulls to the side of the road. Jade gets out; I was right, all she has is her hand bag slung over her shoulder. I look around, trying to see where she might be headed, but all around are apartment buildings that look more like squatters’ quarters and crack dens. There’s no comprehensible reason for her to be here.

The taxi drives off and I see her try to run after it, trying to wave the driver down, calling out, “No, wait!!” He’s just going to leave her here. I shake my head in disgust.

I lean forward, looking through the glass compartment, trying to see what she’s doing. There’s a piece of paper in her hand and she holds it up, as if to match an address with the number on one of the buildings.

She hesitates and then walks up to one of the smog blackened doors, pushing on it and then stepping inside.

“For fuck’s sake.” I mumble. “Henry, drive up to that building please.”

He inches forwards and before he’s stopped the car completely, I push my door open. “Wait here, please.”

I walk up to the door, and brace myself for what I’m about to find inside. And why Jade Sinclair, a seemingly nice girl is here, on her own, in the middle of the day.

I pull my hoodie tighter around my face and push on the door. It’s heavy, protesting as it creaks open. I step inside and it swings back into place with a loud clang.

The first thing I notice, is the smell. It’s like someone has pressed a handkerchief soaked in urine against my face. I swallow down the urge to gag and will myself to breathe through my mouth.

I look around, letting my eyes adjust to the dark.

It’s just what I thought it would be.

A crack den.

There are stained mattresses strewn all over the floor and empty food containers littering almost every surface. The room in which I’m standing is empty but I can hear low voices and groans from the neighboring rooms. I wander through, ignored by the figures curled up in the corners, passed out or too high to even notice they’re being watched.

It looks like an old office building. There are no doors, or doors that close anyway. Just room after room of excrement, trash and discarded drug paraphernalia.

And no Jade.

“Jade!” I call out in a loud whisper. “Jade, where are you?” I step over piles of trash, and try to forget the face of strung out addicts, months from their last shower.

I finally step into a room and see her. She’s kneeling down over a figure that’s propped up against the wall. He looks completely lifeless. She’s murmuring something, but there’s no reply. She reaches out and shakes him and after a moment he moans in response. She drops her head and takes a deep breath.

“Jade!” I say, walking up behind her, my hand on my shoulder.

Her body jumps, but she doesn’t face me. “What are you doing here?” She hisses, as she stands up, pushing a hand against my chest. “Go away, you shouldn’t be here!”

“I shouldn’t be here? What are you doing here?”

“Just go away, Kaine, this is none of your business. Just go away! You said you didn’t want to ever see me again, remember?”

She drops back down to her kneels, tugging on the arm of the person sitting on the floor. He’s dressed in a torn t-shirt, stained with food and smoke. His hair is matted. His face resembles no color that would normally be described as human skin. I stand and watch as she slaps him gently on the face and neck, trying to get him to respond.

“Jade,” I tap her on the shoulder. “Jade!”

“What?” she snaps back, and looks up at me for the first time, her face covered in tears.

“What are you doing here?” I urge her.

“Because he called me. He said... he said he needed help,” she whispers, her voice husky and scared.

“Who?”

“Him,” she says, gently running the back of her hand down against his cheek. “Gabriel. He’s my little brother.”