"BEX!!!" bawled Trina, who was waiting down on the sidewalk.
Bex stuck her head out the window.
"Half a mo!" she called back. "Hair's not set!"
"Ah, for fuck's sake, can you not just give it a rest for a day?" asked Trina. "You look like a snocone!"
Bex sent her a brilliant smile.
"Punk is as punk does," she shouted back.
"Yes, well. Punk's going to make us late for brunch!"
Bex shook her head and grinned, then pulled herself back inside.
"Brunch," she said to herself. "Wouldn't be having those newfangled things up north."
She sprayed her colorful Mohican hairstyle, considered doing the limbo out of the bathroom window onto the fire escape and dropping down from it to save time, but Trina was always telling her that she needed some measure of decorum in her life, so she took the stairs.
Life in London in the 80s was not an easy one. She was living with four roommates in a tiny flat, but it was enough for her.
She was independent, and she was finally living in London. That was what mattered.
Her parents were nice enough, but she had grown up in Yorkshire. They were poor as churchmice, and she'd known very little apart from sheepdog training and sheep herding. She could whistle down a Border collie like anybody's business.
But she had dreamed of London since she'd first seen David Bowie on the television, and followed him along with various punk bands for her entire teenage years.
So when the opportunity had come up after she'd turned eighteen, Bex (officially known as Rebecca White) had escaped the pastoral wonderland of Yorkshire, where the biggest excitement had been attending Skipton Auction Mart for that year's prize dogs.
Trina was honest-to-goodness tapping her foot impatiently when Bex emerged from her grimy building.
"Finally!" she said. "You'd think you were a five star general with all that carry on! Let's go, we're going to be late."
Trina was a yuppie. She had big hair too, but it was puffed out and curled within an inch of its life, all golden-blonde and hairsprayed. She also wore pink powersuits with massive shoulderpads. Dress for the job you want to have, Trina had informed Bex at one point, and Bex's reply had been, then what are you going for,five star general? so it had become something of an inside joke between the two of them.
Trina and Bex had grown up together. Best friends since they were little, although their differences were very distinct now. Both had wanted to end up in London, but for very different reasons. Trina had arrived first, but she lived in a tiny bedsit in the City, keeping up appearances until her ship came in, so to speak.
The restaurant was huge and cavernous, never a fantastic plan in a city with somewhat inclement weather and a cold and damp winter season, but then it was probably a way to display wealth, affording to heat something with those dimensions. Despite London's reputation, the warmer seasons could be hot, so the restaurant was fashionably cool at the moment. It was also visibly gaudy and ornate, splashing its call to wealth everywhere.
"You're not going to marry into it, right?" asked Bex, digging into her food. "Ugh. Why is the food never good here? You'd think with London being a world city they'd manage to import something that tastes good, even from back home."
"Well, of course I'll end up marrying someone in the finance industry, or maybe a politician," said Trina, "but it's the Eighties! I'm going to do it on my own. Women are working now, and dressing...like that."
"What's wrong with the way I'm dressed?"
"Oh, come on, Bex. You know."
"I'm not about to become the fifth financial advisor to the queen, or whatever," said Bex. "So it doesn't matter how I'm dressed."
"You have to think of the future," said Trina. "You're not going to live in a flatshare forever, are you? Don't you know what you want to do with your life?"
Bex rolled her eyes.
"Sure, Mum," she said.
"I'm serious! I know it's all sex drugs and rock and roll - "
"First of all, it's punk, and also, no to the first two so far."
"You know what I mean. But the point is, you have to think about what's next. Your career. Your life! You can look down on me and think I'm uncool or whatever, working for The Man. But I'm making sure that I'm taking care of myself. For the future."
She sighed.
"Look, Bex. I know. We're from the same neighbourhood, more or less. Grew up elbow-deep in mucking out sheep pens. I'm looking for a life where I never have to do any of that again. If you love London like I do, maybe for different reasons, but - you need to find a way to stay. And the problem with anarchy and rock and roll, or punk, or any of that, is that I completely understand and sympathise with the ideas behind all of it, sure, power to the people and everything. But if you don't figure out something fast, you're going to end up back on your Mum's couch going with your da to the Skipton Auction Mart and picking out sheepdogs!"
"I like the Skipton Auction Mart. And sheepdogs."
"Sure, so do I, generally. But I'd like to participate in all of that on a holiday visit to the family. I don't want it to be my life! And if that's the life you want, there's nothing wrong with it, I think it's a good life for those who do. It's just that we talked about moving to London our whole lives, and now here we are. I know how I'm going to stay, or at least I'm going to do my damnedest to try. Do you?"
Bex moved her food around with her fork.
"Didn't realise the brunch thing was gonna be the third degree," she said.
"I'm asking because I care whether we both achieve our dreams, however different they are," said Trina. "Just - think about it, okay? Promise me."
"Sure," said Bex. "Okay. I promise. Now can we talk about something else?"
Trina smiled.
"Of course," she said. "Have I told you about John in accounting?"
Bex groaned.
"Out of the frying pan," she complained.
Trina laughed.
"You asked!"
"I did. I absolutely did."
Trina said her ebullient goodbyes, and Bex was alone again, walking back to her flat. She'd considered taking the Tube, but the sun was shining, and she had some thinking to do. She also didn't really want to be submerged in all that cigarette smoke, despite being a smoker herself. It was one thing to have a cigarette or two, and quite another to be dipped like a sheep in the fug of the London Underground.
The thing was, Trina was right - Bex didn't really have a way or a reason to stay in the city. She hadn't found work yet, but that wasn't so much of a concern. If her look didn't prevent her from being a shopgirl or working at a pub, she didn't mind that kind of job.
But as far as a reason, or a passion, or even a career path, Bex was lost.
She'd grown up learning how to work with sheepdogs, so that was her primary education apart from what she'd learned in school. But as far as specialised skills were concerned, that was the only one that stood out. And what use had London for a sheepdog specialist?
All her life, she'd never really known what she wanted to do with it. Trina had been focused on finance and the City since they were old enough to play-pretend, and she liked to play 'business' while Bex was still playing at rafting down the Amazon and having big adventures. The reality of farm life eventually intruded and they both had to work, but Trina never lost sight of what she wanted. Bex wanted the same thing, to move to London, but mostly for social reasons, including the ability to see her favourite bands play.
London itself was an interesting place, although not quite the thriving urban metropolis she had expected. It was dirty and downright dangerous in many areas. It was not very cutting-edge, and seemed to be lacking in various things. A lot of places were closed and some things just did not work as intended. But the spirit of the city was fantastic, and she did want to stay.
She just wasn't sure how.
There was a man standing over another man laying on the street in a pool of blood, presumably his own.
"Bloody hell!" Bex said, and began to run toward them, despite the fact that it probably wasn't the safest move.
But she'd trained in CPR and first aid, just like a lot of farmers' children, and if she could help -
"Get outta the way!" she barked at the man standing there.
He half-turned, and -
wow.
Handsome.
But that wasn't of much concern to Bex at the moment.
"What the hell d'ye think your doin', standing there with one arm as long as the other?" she demanded, her Yorkshire origins showing in a high octane moment, as she hit the ground on her knees beside the man, ripping her fishnets in the process. She paid it no mind; her fishnets had already been artistically ripped by herself with a seam ripper and a pair of scissors. At least these rips would be legitimate ones.
"It's too late, pet," said the man standing there, and Bex was suddenly aware of two things:
as he'd said, the man on the ground was already dead.
And secondly, she suddenly registered that the man standing there had been holding something in his hands, warm and glowing gold.
She looked up at him, confirmed he was indeed holding some kind of golden sphere, and snapped:
"Did you kill him?"
The man shook his head.
"No. I did not."
"Opportunistic thief, then, I take it?"
He was still shaking his head no emphatically, eyes wide.
"So then what's that you've got in your hands?" she demanded, checking over the man on the ground again. "Poxy thieves! Something of his, I imagine?"
"Yes."
This frank admission startled Bex.
"Oh, so not a murderer, just a thief?"
"Not a thief either."
He looked down at the golden thing he was cradling in his hands.
"You stay right there," she snapped. "I'm going to get the rozzers. Don't move."
She ran to where she'd last seen a police box, but it was locked. Then found a phone booth and called 999. She gave the dispatcher all the information she had, and then ran back to the street, fully expecting the man to be long gone.
He was still standing there awkwardly, holding the golden ball as if it were a pet cat. It was looking slightly melted now.
"Oh," she said in surprise. "You're still here."
"Yes," he agreed. "You said not to move."
She was surprised, but quickly recovered.
"What've you got there?" she demanded instead.
"His soul."
Bex blinked.
"His what?"
The man looked down at the slightly-melted glowing golden thing in his hands.
"I really ought to get it to its destination. If you don't mind."
"Hey, you can't run off! The police are on their way, and if you killed him - "
"You want to stand here with a murderer?"
Bex stared at him. He did have a point.
But the man was looking at the golden thing again.
"His name was Aaron Dinsdale," he said in a soft voice. "He liked to play cards. Too much, I think. Someone disagreed with him. Not me. He also liked dogs and had a pet lizard."
There was something so disarming about the way the man spoke, Bex wasn't sure what to make of him.
"I really must bring him home, you see."
"Miss? Did you report - ah."
Bex turned to see a couple of police officers approaching, who had of course caught sight of the body, and then she turned back to address the man.
He was gone.
And try as she might, she couldn't see which way he had headed, unless he had vanished into thin air.
"We'll need to take a statement from you," said one of the police.
"Sure," said Bex faintly.