Porter Island Chapter Seven (standard:action, 1990 words)
Author: Brian Cross	Added: Oct 19 2024	Views/Reads: 64/23	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Betty McCloud is called out of retirement to face her biggest assignment yet: Porter Island. Its levels of lawlessness are through the roof, but why?

Chapter Seven Betty wasn't about to wait for Anthony to relay the
previous occupant's details, she'd already planned her next move. She'd 
chosen an address randomly from the files, the account holder having 
been deceased for the past three years. Recent enough, she hoped, for 
any relatives to throw light on the account. Hampering her was her 
limited geographical knowledge of the area. She'd absorbed as much of 
the info Anthony had given her as she could, and Porter Island, an area 
of roughly eight square miles was compact enough in its central areas 
but wilder and more remote on its western fringes. Her immediate task 
was to identify the location of the account she'd chosen. She'd been 
supplied with a regional Porter Island map, and her selected location, 
Pilgrim Place, had been easy to trace, central and close to where she'd 
been with Stapleton. Setting out, she commandeered the limousine, 
overruling Hands' objections, not entirely trusting the chauffeur's 
involvement, and should he complain, it would most likely set her at 
odds with Anthony. 

Dismissing the thought, Betty left the limousine in a main street
parking lot and headed under a damp archway into Pilgrim Place, a 
Regency-styled rectangular area bordered by townhouses, no doubt 
fashionable and affluent in days gone by, but now showing signs of 
neglect and decay, the period windows cracked and warped around the 
sills the paint on the doors flaking off, and weeds growing through the 
cobbled paving. 

Betty found number fourteen, former home of Graham Mahoney, the bronze
numbering hanging askew, and hoping to find one of his relatives in 
residence, rapped her fist on the door. She gave it a moment, then 
knocked again, harder this time. The door slowly, partially opened and 
a middle-aged, dark-skinned woman poked her head around it. “Hey, I'm 
making a few enquiries about a previous occupant, wondering if you 
could ...” 

“I don't know nothin' about no previous occupant ...” 

“You haven't heard me out.” Betty's mighty right arm prevented the door
from closing as though it had met a stone wall. “I need to know 
anything you can tell me about Mr. Mahoney, anything at all.” 

“I just told you. I know nothing. Now leave me ...” 

“Okay, I got that.” Betty sighed. “Look, I mean you no harm. It's
essential I find out more about Mr Mahoney who used to live here.” 

The woman seemed to calm a little, took a step back, crossed her arms.
“I been here three years. Like I told you, I don't know a thing about 
the previous tenant. I rented the place from Briggs Real Estate down on 
1st Street. Maybe they can help you.” 

“Ist Street. That's the narrow street that runs between Main Street and
The Promenade, right?” The tenant nodded, and Betty glanced over her 
shoulder. The woman's gaze had shifted behind her. “Those two been 
watchin' you – maybe this place since you been 'ere. Kinda makin' me 
nervous – not like that's new since this place been goin' downhill – 
who are ya anyway?” 

“Things that bad, eh?” Betty ignored the question, swung around, hands
on hips, eyes fixed on a pair of adolescents thirty yards or so out in 
the rectangle, close to the archway, making no attempt to seem 
inconspicuous as they began marching towards her. Could be Shriver's 
men, or the mayor's come to that. Or opportunists, given the nature of 
the area. Betty glanced back. “Don't let them concern you. I'll handle 
this. They won't be giving you any trouble – thanks for your time.” 

“I still don't know who you are ...” 

Betty again chose not to answer the woman's question, striding across
the weed-infested cobbles and closing the gap between her and the 
figures now glaring menacingly forward, all attempts to convey they 
were idly passing their time now dispensed with. 

“Ah, the little lady wants to talk, now ain't that nice?” The taller one
of the two, spiked blond hair, tattoos on sleeveless, meaty arms, 
turned to his mate with a derisive, leering smile. These weren't 
Shriver's men, the mayor's, or anyone else's for that matter, but the 


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