to his office.
I was stoked to see Boges arrive on his bike.
‘How’s it going?’ he asked, pulling his helmet off.
‘Boring,’ I said. ‘Undercover work is not very exciting.’
‘I can take over from here. You should get out of here before five o’clock. The less you’re seen, the better. I know what Rathbone looks like and I know he drives a red Audi. I’ll wait for him to leave and try and follow him home. I’ll send you the address as soon as I can.’
‘And then you’d better get back to perfecting Oriana’s fingerprint.’
‘Yes, boss!’
r’s address: 87 chesterfield ave, seaview heights. going home now.
Winter convinced me to grab a cab with her to Rathbone’s. I had a bit of ‘gold’ money that I was happy enough to part with, so after about twentyminutes in front of the mirror—with Winter fiddling with my hair—we hopped in one from the closest rank and headed off.
The cabbie dropped us off a few blocks away from our destination and we made the rest of the way on foot.
The grey and white house was surrounded by lush lawns and gardens. A low hedge, trimmed meticulously, formed the front fence. A path led up to the entrance of the house, and a long driveway led to a triple garage. Beside the garage was a paved pathway to the backyard.
All was quiet.
We carefully crept up and peered down the side of the house. The edge of a paved terrace peeked out—a bit like the one at the back of Rafe’s place. It also looked like he might have had a bit of a vegetable patch or something growing deep in the rear of the yard.
The house was shrouded in darkness. Not a single glimmer of light seemed to show from inside. It looked like whoever was inside was in bed and asleep. No point sticking around tonight.
After Winter and I walked all the way back to her house, I decided to continue walking to St Johns Street. She told me Sligo had mentioned something about ‘spending quality time’ with her on the weekend, so I couldn’t risk staying at her place, waiting for him to pop his nasty head through her door and find me on her couch.
And so I was back in the St Johns Street dump, feeling a great sense of déjà vu. Restless and trying to fall asleep on the creaking floorboards, my mind was skimming over everything that had happened to me since running into the crazy guy on New Year’s Eve last year. The 365-day countdown was ticking away so fast. I’d come so far, but I still had so much to do.
I was thinking about some of the people who had helped me along the way—Jennifer Smith, Melba Snipe, Nelson Sharkey… and I was thinking about some of the people I hoped would help me in the future—Eric Blair, and the Keeper of Rare Books, Dr Theophilus Brinsley.
And then, of course, I was thinking about the guy who had my face. Ryan Spencer.
11 OCTOBER
82 days to go …
Boges, Winter and I had shared surveillance of Rathbone’s house over the weekend, but none of us had uncovered anything worthy of blackmail—unless you count footage of Rathbone, when he thought no-one was watching, wandering out to collect the morning paper in his undies.
I was hoping this week would give us the breakthrough we needed, but today had been no better. I’d spent the day sitting outside Pacific Tower, watching the entrance while mindlessly scratching a thin layer of black colour off my mobile phone casing.
Now I was back at Chesterfield Avenue, hiding myself and Boges’s bike in the bushes. The red Audi was parked in the driveway and a light was on upstairs.
I peered in the direction of the street when I heard footsteps walking up the path nearby.
I knew that silhouette anywhere. Winter.
‘Hi,’ she whispered, crouching down beside me. ‘I know it’s not my shift, but I needed a break from studying and thought you could do with some company—’
Winter suddenly stopped talking and pointed to the front door with her eyes.
It was Rathbone emerging, still in his suit and carrying a black
I was stoked to see Boges arrive on his bike.
‘How’s it going?’ he asked, pulling his helmet off.
‘Boring,’ I said. ‘Undercover work is not very exciting.’
‘I can take over from here. You should get out of here before five o’clock. The less you’re seen, the better. I know what Rathbone looks like and I know he drives a red Audi. I’ll wait for him to leave and try and follow him home. I’ll send you the address as soon as I can.’
‘And then you’d better get back to perfecting Oriana’s fingerprint.’
‘Yes, boss!’
r’s address: 87 chesterfield ave, seaview heights. going home now.
Winter convinced me to grab a cab with her to Rathbone’s. I had a bit of ‘gold’ money that I was happy enough to part with, so after about twentyminutes in front of the mirror—with Winter fiddling with my hair—we hopped in one from the closest rank and headed off.
The cabbie dropped us off a few blocks away from our destination and we made the rest of the way on foot.
The grey and white house was surrounded by lush lawns and gardens. A low hedge, trimmed meticulously, formed the front fence. A path led up to the entrance of the house, and a long driveway led to a triple garage. Beside the garage was a paved pathway to the backyard.
All was quiet.
We carefully crept up and peered down the side of the house. The edge of a paved terrace peeked out—a bit like the one at the back of Rafe’s place. It also looked like he might have had a bit of a vegetable patch or something growing deep in the rear of the yard.
The house was shrouded in darkness. Not a single glimmer of light seemed to show from inside. It looked like whoever was inside was in bed and asleep. No point sticking around tonight.
After Winter and I walked all the way back to her house, I decided to continue walking to St Johns Street. She told me Sligo had mentioned something about ‘spending quality time’ with her on the weekend, so I couldn’t risk staying at her place, waiting for him to pop his nasty head through her door and find me on her couch.
And so I was back in the St Johns Street dump, feeling a great sense of déjà vu. Restless and trying to fall asleep on the creaking floorboards, my mind was skimming over everything that had happened to me since running into the crazy guy on New Year’s Eve last year. The 365-day countdown was ticking away so fast. I’d come so far, but I still had so much to do.
I was thinking about some of the people who had helped me along the way—Jennifer Smith, Melba Snipe, Nelson Sharkey… and I was thinking about some of the people I hoped would help me in the future—Eric Blair, and the Keeper of Rare Books, Dr Theophilus Brinsley.
And then, of course, I was thinking about the guy who had my face. Ryan Spencer.
11 OCTOBER
82 days to go …
Boges, Winter and I had shared surveillance of Rathbone’s house over the weekend, but none of us had uncovered anything worthy of blackmail—unless you count footage of Rathbone, when he thought no-one was watching, wandering out to collect the morning paper in his undies.
I was hoping this week would give us the breakthrough we needed, but today had been no better. I’d spent the day sitting outside Pacific Tower, watching the entrance while mindlessly scratching a thin layer of black colour off my mobile phone casing.
Now I was back at Chesterfield Avenue, hiding myself and Boges’s bike in the bushes. The red Audi was parked in the driveway and a light was on upstairs.
I peered in the direction of the street when I heard footsteps walking up the path nearby.
I knew that silhouette anywhere. Winter.
‘Hi,’ she whispered, crouching down beside me. ‘I know it’s not my shift, but I needed a break from studying and thought you could do with some company—’
Winter suddenly stopped talking and pointed to the front door with her eyes.
It was Rathbone emerging, still in his suit and carrying a black
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