The musical lasts three hours and by the time we leave the theatre it's dark outside and I have an excruciating headache.
"Wasn't that great?" Sofie asks and I force myself to smile and say, "Yeah, it was great," because her enjoyment is all that really mattered tonight anyway.
On our way to the train station, we take a shortcut down a quiet residential road leading through an old council estate where most of the buildings are unoccupied and will probably be knocked down soon to make room for more modern housing.
We are walking briskly, hand-in-hand, when Sofie suddenly comes to a halt.
"What?" I stop too, confused, and follow her gaze.
In the carpark across the street from us stand three shadowy figures.
A chill instantly runs down my spine.
Who the hell hangs out in an empty car park late at night?
Not wanting to find out, I tug on my little cousin's hand and say, "Come on, Sofie, or we'll miss our train."
But now there is a problem. Taking this shortcut requires us to directly pass the carpark, but there's no way in hell I'm willing to risk us getting mugged tonight so we will have to go back and walk the long way around. Ugh.
The sudden loud sound of an engine causes my heart to leap into my throat and, in a moment of panic, I yank Sofie across the street and behind a brick wall that separates the public footpath from the playground which the kids who used to reside here must have once played in but now is abandoned.
Seconds later a dark car comes speeding past, the tires screeching as it comes to a violent halt.
"Emmy, why are we hiding?" she asks as we crouch down to stay out of sight.
That's a good question. Why are we hiding?
I peek my head over the wall and watch as a burly man with a buzzcut steps out of the vehicle. He walks around to the front of the car and, crossing his arms, casually leans against it.
Seconds go by, then a minute, before a movement from the carpark draws my attention.
A middle-aged man wearing a long black trench coat steps out of the shadows, followed by two younger men dressed in similar attire.
They silently walk forward, stopping when they are at least ten feet away from the car and its driver.
The older man is the first to break the silence.
"Good evening, Jacques," he says.
"Stanislav," the driver- Jacques- responds gruffly.
"You're late," he comments.
"Traffic," Jacques replies.
Stanislav raises an eyebrow and asks, "At this time of night?"
"You would be surprised," Jacques says, not at all convincingly, and I notice for the first time that he has a French accent.
Stanislav smiles.
"Oh, this week has been full of surprises," he chuckles disingenuously. "Finding out that you were in London was one of them. Tell me, Jacques, are you enjoying your visit so far?"
"It's not as nice as Paris," Jacques responds with a shrug. "But I admit that I am biased." He pauses for a moment before continuing. "Would you like to ask me about the weather now? Carry on with tedious small talk? Or would you like to get to the point where you tell me why we are having this meeting?"
The smile slips instantly from Stanislav's lips, convincing me that it was never real to begin with.
"You sound impatient."
"I have better places to be than here," Jacques answers unapologetically.
"Did you at least respect my request by coming alone," Stanislav asks. His eyes briefly scan the street and I duck back down to hide my head.
Sofie stares at me with wide eyes, clearly wanting to ask me something but I shake my head at her. Not now.
"There's no one in the car if that's what you are asking," I hear Jacques say.
"Really?" Stanislav's voice carries a hint of mocking. "Then please tell me, where are your friends? Are they hiding? Choosing to be like the cockroaches they are?"
He says that last part slightly louder as if he wants someone else to hear.
What the hell are these people talking about?
Sofie taps me frantically.
"There's someone on top of the tower block," she whispers.
What? I mouth before looking up to see for myself.
In the darkness above the tower block opposite us, barely visible against the backdrop of dark grey clouds in the night sky, is the undoubtable figure of a person.
What the hell?
Why would someone - anyone - be on top of an abandoned council estate block?
A chilling thought hits me and then, as if reading my mind, Sofie leans in and says under her breath, "I think they are going to jump."
And right on cue, they do.
The figure steps off of the concrete ledge and plummets to what will no doubt be their death. But instead of landing in a pile of broken bones and a growing pool of blood, they somehow manage to achieve the impossibility of landing directly on their feet.
I hear Sofie's sharp inhale.
A long moment of silence passes before the figure unhurriedly steps out into the light, revealing a young man who can't be much older than I am.
He is tall and slim and has a headful of long black curls which in an ordinary situation would have made me swoon. But this isn't an ordinary situation. Far from. And when I hear him speak, icy chills roll down my spine.
"Who are you calling a cockroach?"
How could he have heard that from all the way up there?
Instead of showing shock, Stanislav simply smiles at him and it boggles my mind. If I had just watched someone jump from a fifteen storey block of flats and land on their feet without a scratch, I doubt my face would be responding to my brain in any way.
"François Dashiell," he drawls. "What another pleasant surprise."
"Wish I could say the same," the man, François, says before adding, "And that's Your Grace to you."
"You're in England," Stanislav replies with a smug smile. "Your noble title isn't valid here."
"Quite an extreme entrance," he continues. "With your upbringing, you must crave attention."
François makes a sound, something in between a grunt and a laugh.
"I was just checking out the area for my own convenience," he says. "I don't trust slayers and I agree with my friend. Stop the small talk and get to the point. What do you want?"
"I think you know what I want to talk about," Stanislav says.
"Do I?" François asks, sounding bored.
"Your activities here in London."
François scowls. "How would you know anything about my activities? Have you been stalking me, Stanislav?"
Stanislav shakes his head, still smiling.
"I don't need to spy on you to know of the crimes you commit. London is a large city but word still gets around."
"Crimes?" François suddenly laughs. "Oh yes, that's right. You would know all about illegal activities, wouldn't you, Stanislav? After all, you do sign disclosure contracts with the British government to cover up unjustified slayings."
Stanislav smiles with a hint of complacency but denies whatever the other man has accused him of, saying, "The only agreement the prime minister and I have established is in our shared belief that England has the right to be protected from the likes of you and your kind. We take the safety of this country's citizens very seriously and will not standby and watch you shed blood in the streets."
"No blood has been shed here," Jacques suddenly speaks up but Stanislav ignores him and continues.
"Being here without expressed permission from the British government is an offence and taking lives on foreign land is a serious crime."
"Didn't you hear what I just said?" Jacques snaps. "We haven't killed anyone. "
"Yet." Stanislav acknowledges him this time with a glare. "But it's only a matter of who, when and where. No one's safe when your kind is around."
"Our kind," Jacques repeats Stanislav's words with disdain.
"You need to leave," Stanislav orders. "Both of you."
"Or what?" Jacques challenges, pushing away from the car and storming forward. François throws his arm up, knocking it against his friend's chest to prevent him from going any further.
Stanislav responds with a cold smile.
"I am well within my rights to use deadly force."
"That won't be necessary," François assures calmly. "We have had enough of London anyway. Let's go, Jacques."
François turns and begins to walk towards the car. Jacques glares at Stanislav for a few extra seconds before turning to walk away as well.
As soon as his back is turned I see Stanislav reach into the inside of his coat and pull out a shiny black handgun.
I gasp when Stanislav raises his arm and aims the gun at Jacques' back.
"Fais attention!" a voice shouts in warning. Watch out!
A blurry figure comes barrelling from out of nowhere, colliding with Stanislav and knocking his arm to the side just as he pulls the trigger, making him miss his mark.
The sound of the gun going off comes as a shock.
I have never heard a real gunshot before. It's a lot louder in real life than it is in the movies.
The person who just appeared - a man with dark skin whose wearing what looks like a Misfit's skull t-shirt - snatches the gun from Stanislav's hand and throws it across the street way out of reach just as François spins around to witness what's going on.
"Shoot them, shoot them!" Stanislav shouts whilst swinging a fist at his attacker who dodges the punch and then lands one of their own directly to his gut, causing him to double over and drop to his knees.
Stanislav's companions whip out weapons of their own and François smirks, not appearing worried at all.
"Oh no," he says. "I would save my bullets if I were you."
He lunges forward and kicks one them square in the chest. The man is sent flying backwards by the force of the blow and when his friend attempts to come to his aid he gets elbowed in the face by François.
Blood splatters. The man screams. And François grins like a complete and utter madman as he says, "Now blood has been spilt."
The man pinches his nose which is now pouring with blood, staining the front of his trench coat and the pavement beneath him. He glares at François with eyes full of contempt before pulling something out from his inner jacket pocket.
I gasp at the sight of the very lethal looking dagger before watching in horror as he lunges forward with it aimed at François' chest.
Reacting with more speed than should be possible, François darts to the side and catches the man in a headlock. He flexes his bicep and twists.
Snap.
The man drops to the ground, eyes wide open and neck broken. Dead.
Hearing Sofie's sharp gasp, I slap my hand over her mouth before she can scream.
She has to keep quiet. We have just witnessed a murder and I have read enough crime thriller novels to know what happens to witnesses if they are discovered.
"You bloodsucking motherfuckers," Stanislav roars. "You think you will get away with this? You think you-"
He is cut off mid-sentence by Jacques, who storms forward and kicks him straight in the face.
Stanislav falls onto his side and spits out a tooth. He looks up at Jacques, sneers and says, "Fuck you and your family, Taillefer. I would've danced on their graves if their bodies hadn't been burned to ash."
Jacques releases an enraged roar and the black man takes a step back, simply watching as Jacques begins to pummel Stanislav with his fists.
Meanwhile, François leisurely makes his way over to the man he kicked who is struggling to get to his feet.
Grabbing a fistful of the man's hair, François lowers his head.
At first, I think he's whispering in his ear but then I hear the scream that leaves the man's lips.
François yanks his face away violently, pulling something red and stringy away from the man's neck.
My stomach lurches.
Blood - actual blood - covers the bottom half of the François' face.
What the fuck?!
Sofie sobs against my hand whilst I watch in absolute horror as François lowers his head again to the wound he has just created on the writhing man's neck and Jacques continues to beat Stanislav to a pulp.
Stanislav's face is now unrecognisable. He looks more like a tomato that has been smashed with a hammer than an actual person.
Jacques stops his assault and grabs Stanislav by the lapels of his jacket, lifting him slightly off the ground.
"Where are they?" he snarls.
A wet gurgling sound comes from the back of Stanislav's throat.
"What?" Jacques barks, shaking him and making his head loll awkwardly on his shoulders as if he has no bones in his neck.
Another unintelligible sound escapes his mouth.
"Tell me, Stanislav." Jacques' voice rises in both anger and - if I'm not mistaken - desperation. "Just tell me!"
Stanislav coughs violently and struggles to breathe through all the blood no doubt filling his mouth. When he has finally gathered enough oxygen into his lungs, he stares up at Jacques and says with his last wheezing breath, "You'll never find them."
And then he dies.
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