14

“You two have a snitch?” Conway said, leaning back in his chair, befuddled.

“Yes sir,” Wally said.

"Technically, he’s Corporal Nelson’s snitch,” Timmy said.

“But ‘e leant ‘im to us,” Wally added.

“He leant you a snitch?”

“Yes sir. For that arson case six months ago.” Timmy answered.

“And is he reliable?”

"Well, the info didn’t actually come from ‘im,” Wally said.

“Who did it come from?”

“The… umm… working lady that was umm… servicing him at the time,” Timmy said, blushing at the memory of the topless woman.

“The information comes from a prostitute?”

“Yes sir.”

Conway sighed deeply and furrowed his brows in thought.

“What did she say exactly?” Conway asked.

“She said some of her friends had OD’d from bad Burn that they purchased in the RatHoles,” Timmy began.

“Did she where in the RatHoles?”

“Some big wonky towers,’ Wally said.

Conway thought for a moment and then nodded for him to continue.

“She said they’ve had to slash their prices because addicts have been scared off and that they’re crying out for business at the moment,” Timmy finished.

“Did she give you any names?”

“No. She said the dealers change all the time, but she did say she knew one of the big distributors.” Timmy flipped through his notebook. “Goes by the name of Cameron from out East.”

“Well, that’s more solid intel than we’ve managed to get so far.” Conway rubbed the heel of his hand across his forehead. He looked exhausted. “Good work boys, that’s proper detective work.”

“Thank you, sir!” Timmy and Wally beamed proudly.

“Have you two ever gone under cover?” Conway asked.

“Oh… ermmm…”

“Once,” Wally said.

“It didn’t go well,” Timmy said.

Their first and only attempt at undercover work saw them accidentally cause a brawl in a gambling den and then get kidnapped by The Landlord and held hostage until Sergeant Nairo arrived to rescue them.

“Oh yeah,” Conway said. “Don’t worry, this time you’ll be with a veteran who’ll show you the ropes. I need you boys to go undercover in the RatHoles as addicts.”

“Us as junkies?” Wally exclaimed. “But their filthy sods. Gimme the hives just bein’ near ‘em.”

“Well you’ll have to get over that,” Conway snapped at him. “I need two fresh faces. You’re the youngest detectives I’ve got on the squad. No one will think you’re coppers. No one thinks you’re coppers when you’re in uniform, so it shouldn’t be hard once Sarpele works his magic.”

“Who?” Wally said.

“Sarpele, the number one undercover operative in all of Valderia,” a musical voice hissed in their ears.

Timmy and Wally jumped and spun around to see a short, dark haired man standing there. He was unremarkable in every way. He was average height, average build, and he had the sort of face that could fit a thousand personalities. He could be a blue collar worker, a wealthy businessman, a seedy criminal, or high flying lawyer. The one thing he didn’t look like was a copper. Ultimately though, he had a forgettable face. You could look at it a hundred times and still struggle to recall it. Did he have big ears? A large nose? Thin lips? Thick eyebrows? Possibly.

“When did you get there?" Wally said, holding his chest.

“Sarpele is never far my friend,” he whispered.

“This is Sarpele, he’s a specialist in undercover operations. He’ll be holding your hands through this assignment,” Conway said, clearly less impressed by Sarpele’s sudden appearance than Wally and Timmy.

“Oh, nice to meet you sir,” Timmy said.

“I’m not a sir. I have no rank.” Sarpele said, eyeing up the two corporals. “Officially, I’m not even employed by the VPD.”

“You’re not?” Timmy said.

“Perhaps.” Sarpele walked around them, measuring them up. “You sure about these two wet mice on the streets, Rod?”

“They’re tougher than they look,” Conway grunted.

“They tough?” Sarpele stopped close to Timmy’s side. “You tough?”

“We’re tough,” Wally said. “We’ve kicked shit out of plenty of crooks.”

“But have you had shit kicked out of you?" Sarpele appeared by Wally’s side as if by magic.

“Woah! Huh? Yeah, plenty times.”

Sarpele rubbed a hand across his mouth and then whispered in Wally’s ear.

“I don’t believe you.”

“Why not!”

“Coz you have to be tough to be in the streets!” Sarpele dropped seemlessly in to a thuggish East End accent. Even his posture morphed to make him seem like a lout spoiling for a fight. “You gotta be made of iron on these streets, son! Wot you gonna do when some cunt puts a razor in yore face and asks if yore a pig? Wot you gonna do then? Coz there ain’t no back up. Ain’t no boys in meat wagons stormin’ into the rescue. You’re on your jack jones and you’ll be bent over and fucked if you don't play it right!”

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Wally’s eyes widened, and he looked at Conway, who was hiding the ghost of a smile behind his hand.

“We’ll say… we’ll say… you can… piss right off coz-coz…” Timmy stammered.

“We ain’t no pigs and I’ll stick one yer eye if you say it again!” Wally finished for him.

They stood shoulder to shoulder and glowered at Sarpele.

“I suppose they’ll do,” Sarpele said to Conway, dropping back into his normal, colourless voice. “I’ll dress ‘em up and make ‘em look pathetic enough. Don’t let him talk though,” Sarpele said, pointing at Timmy. “Afraid no amount of makeup could hide the fact that he’s a grass.”

“I’m not a snitch!” Timmy said adamantly.

“You definitely are,” Conway said.

“Yeah, sorry Tim, but it’s pretty obvious.”

“It is?”

“Yeah.”

“Bet you would snitch on your own mother,” Sarpele said.

“Breeding cats for food is strictly prohibited in Valderia! What else could I do?”

“Enough,” Conway said. “Sarpele work your magic and get these two ready to do hand to hands in the RatHoles by morning.”

*

Sarpele had certainly worked his magic on the boys. He had spent hours picking through random scraps of clothes in the former Missing Property office, making them try on every ragged, filthy piece until he was satisfied. In the end, Timmy was dressed in a torn shirt with one ragged sleeve, a vest that had a brown smear across the back, a pair of trousers that had patches in both knees, and a pair of scuffed boots with no laces. Wally had fared worse. Sarpele had dressed him in a vest that barely came down to his belly button, a pair of corduroy workman’s trousers that came to about mid-shin, and a pair of sandals.

“I’ll catch me death out there in just these!” Wally moaned as he tried to pull his vest down.

"No, you won’t! Think, have you ever seen a cold Burner?" Sarpele said to him, tapping the side of his head.

“I dunno! But I’m not a Burner!”

“You are! Going undercover isn’t just about coming up with funny names and putting on a costume! It’s about inhabiting a life. Stepping into the shoes of another person and becoming them.

“Why can’t my new person wear longer clothes!” Wally moaned.

“Because… you gotta show the flesh if you want the customers!” Sarpele said, a glint in his eyes.

“Wot?”

Sarpele sighed and looked to the ceiling for help.

“You’re a prostitute, lad. You sell yourself to feed your addiction!”

Wally looked thunderstruck. His mouth flapped wordlessly for a moment.

“I’m not doing that!” he cried out.

“You don’t have to do anything,” Sarpele said to him. “That’s just your cover story.”

“Why does it ‘ave to be so… gross?”

“It fits.” Was all Sarpele said. “And you, Timmy, you are new to the Burn game. You’ve run away from home and are lost out on these cobbles. I’m afraid that’s the only way to explain your size.”

“Oh,” Timmy said, looking down at his round belly. It was true, you didn’t see many overweight Burners.

“And I will be your pimp-slash-father figure on the streets.” Sarpele had dressed himself in a ragged brown cloak with a walking stick. At some point he had found a wig and fake grey beard. He stooped over his stick and suddenly looked three decades older. “I’ve been on these cold, cold cobbles for more than half me life,” he rasped. “Lost me family, me kids won’t talk to me anymore, lost me job and me home. All I got left is the Burn.”

“That’s so sad,” Timmy said.

“It’s a load of bollocks,” Wally muttered bad temperedly. “This ain’t never gonna work.”

“It’s all about how you sell it lad,” Sarpele said. “People see what they want to see. Now let’s get to work!”

*

They had a police wagon drop them about a mile from the RatHoles and they had to walk the rest of the way in the drizzling rain. Along the way, Sarpele kept stopping to smear them with mud and stick bits of twigs and leaves in their hair and clothes. Wally baulked when he pointed at the dog poo. They trudged on in silence, their ragged clothes providing no protection from the rain. By the time they arrived at the RatHoles, Timmy and Wally were thoroughly miserable. Their cheeks were red, their noses were running, and they were soaked to the bone. They looked pathetic.

Sarpele led them through the maze of the RatHoles. Timmy had only ever heard stories about the place. He had been warned since he was a small boy to never go there. That the people were foul and lacked any morals. They would stab you, and rob you, and do worse things if the mood took them. Everyone in the RatHoles was a dirty immigrant or a filthy drug addict, is what his mother told him. Not like the good, decent people where he was raised. They would only rob you at the end of the week when their pay had run out. Even coppers were advised to never go to the RatHoles with anything less than a full squad at their back.

Now he was here though, it wasn’t as terrifying as he once thought. It was filthy and dingy. The buildings were all misshapen and liable to collapse at any moment, and he was sure he saw a rat the size of a small baby, but they hadn’t been stabbed yet. In fact, the denizens of the RatHoles almost completely ignored them. They fit right in. The trio shambled deeper into the maze until they found the buildings the prostitute had described. They were two of the tallest towers in RatHoles, and it was a miracle they were still standing. The tower on the left had begun sinking in on itself and was now only being propped up by the tower on its right. Even so, Timmy could make out cracks running the length of the brickwork that foreshadowed the inevitable collapse of the two towers.

“We’ll post up and watch for a bit before we make our move,” Sarpele hissed at them.

He had fully committed to his role as an enfeebled old Burner. His body quivered with the effort of walking, his stick shaking perilously on the wet cobbles. He walked with a stoop so pronounced he was almost face to face with the floor. Even though Timmy knew he was a fairly fit and capable man, he still felt himself tensing every time the walking stick wobbled, ready to catch him if he fell. Wally was far less into his role. He walked stiffly and kept pulling self consciously at his vest. Timmy was much happier with his own undercover persona. All he had to do was look naive, scared, and lost. Three things that didn’t need much pretending. They made their way into an abandoned low-rise building opposite the towers and made their way up the stairs, having to hold on to Sarpele’s arms and help him up every step. When they arrived on the second floor they saw the place wasn’t empty. There were about fifteen people all huddled around in small groups. Some were asleep, or unconscious, Timmy couldn’t tell, others sat staring at nothing, or gibbering quietly. Only a few seemed conscious enough to notice the new strangers.

“‘Oo are you?” A young man with a completely yellow set of teeth and clothes three sizes too big for him said, a rusty knife in his hand.

“Just three souls in need of somewhere to dry our bones,” Sarpele wheezed, as if the single flight of stairs had winded him badly. “I just need to rest me old bones a minute.”

“This is our gaff. Piss of and find yer own!” the man snarled, levelling the knife at them.

“Surely there’s space for three more bodies?” Sarpele said, his voice throaty and feint like he was ready to keel over. “Please, we’ve come a long way. I just need to rest me weary bones.”

The man looked at Sarpele and the edge disappeared from his posture.

“Come on Connor, let ‘em rest a while,” a dark skinned girl said to him. “Not like we pay rent or nuffin’.” She flashed them a crooked smile and motioned for them to take a seat.

Connor looked like he was going to argue but then gave up.

“Fine, wotever. You can find somewhere over there. But if you try and nick anyfing I’ll gut you. Understand?”

“We ain’t gonna nick nuffin’,” Wally said hotly.

Timmy and Wally took Sarpele under the arm and assisted him to the far side of the empty space and sat him down by the window.

“I thought this place was going to be empty,” Timmy whispered.

“Better it isn’t,” Sarpele said. “We can blend in and go unnoticed.”

“Cheek of it, tryna kick an old man out into the rain and accusing us of being thieves on top of that!” Wally said haughtily.

“He’s not an old man, remember?” Timmy hissed back.

“Yeah… well e’ don’t know that! Typical scum behaviour.”

“Focus on what we’re here for lad,” Sarpele hissed at him. “And don’t draw attention to us.”

“Right. But this place stinks,” Wally muttered.

Sarpele turned himself and faced the window while Timmy and Wally watched the rest of the room.

“We wait and see how much action there is,” Sarpele whispered to them. “We’ll try and get some names and faces. After that, we’re going to go and make some hand to hand buys. See if we can gather any more information.”

Timmy nodded and looked around them. The place made him itch. The pervasive desperation of it was almost sauffocating. All around him he saw creatures in despair. Moaning, whimpering, scratching at themselves. It made him want to be sick and cry at the same time.

“Let’s just do wot we need to and get out of ‘ere,” Wally muttered.