The Evil And The Pure by Darren Dash Page B

to complain about. They were, on the surface, just a brother and sister, at ease around one another, even in the nude. Nothing more sinister to it than that. On the surface.
    T hey finished drying at the same time and pulled on fresh clothes. Tulip wore a short skirt and revealing top, carrying a sweatshirt in case the evening grew cool. He wore jeans and a light jumper. They set off arm in arm for the London Eye, clean, fresh, rosy, to all appearances a happy man and his happy young sister, their secrets, sorrows and strange practices hidden in a safe, shady place where they could for a while be ignored.
     
    To the top of Long Lane, left on to Bermondsey Street, a short walk, crossing Tooley Street and through the Hays Galleria, circling the giant mechanical fish in the open centre of the complex. Left when they hit the Thames, strolling along the Southbank, detouring away from it only when the path demanded it of them. They passed pubs, tourists sitting overlooking the river, soft laughter, couples making out, boats drifting by. A perfect night.
    Past the Globe. Kevin kept meaning to take Tulip there – history, the magic of Shakespeare, transportation to the past – but they hadn’t made it yet. Perhaps next year, when summer rolled round again. He could take a day off work, they’d walk here together, maybe stand in the pit with the unwashed masses.
    Past the London Weekend Television studios, the National Fi lm Theatre, Royal Festival Hall, Jubilee Gardens, and at last the London Eye. Crowds queueing up, despite the month, despite the hour, despite the clouds creeping across the sky and casting the city into gloom. Always queues for the Eye, but they were processed quickly and unless you were dumb enough to come during the peak hours in the middle of summer on sky-blue days, you usually didn’t have to wait too long.
    Kevin and Tulip walked past the Eye, cut through a line of customers scurrying to get on, past the impressive buildings of County Hall, up to Westminster Bridge, where they viewed the Eye in silence, shining, majestic, beautiful, dwarfing and eclipsing the traditional tourist draws of Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament. Back through the crowds, stopping to buy hot, chocolate-coated peanuts and a bottle of lime juice. Kevin looked for a bench but Tulip preferred the grass of Jubilee Gardens, so they found a clean spot and sat, Kevin making Tulip lay her sweatshirt underneath, mindful of the damp. Kevin reclined, a hand over his eyes, breathing in the scent of the grass, the buzz of the crowd a soothing background noise. Tulip sat to attention, scrutinising the tourists, trying to guess where they were from, how far they’d travelled, what exciting and taxing adventures they’d endured along the way, creating stories inside her head.
    A child lost its helium balloon and turned on the tears until an exasperated parent went looking for a replacement. An elderly couple hobbled off the Eye, awed, speechless, vanishing swiftly in the crush of the crowd. A woman argued with her boyfriend, threw her bag at him, stormed off, boyfriend following meekly, clutching the bag, trying to apologise. A clash of punks sauntered by, hair spiked and coloured, jeans and leathers carefully ripped, studs, chains, pierced all over, looking adorable and cuddly despite their apparent viciousness. Two PCs, male and female, smiling, confident, helpful, handsome — like the punks, there to play up to the tourists.
    Kevin lost track of time. The sky darkened, the air chilled, the crowds thinned, but he and Tulip remained. Kevin felt totally calm, like he could lie here forever, or at least until morning, silent, thoughtful, at one with the world. The peace disrupt ed by the screech of his mobile, the theme from Raiders of the Lost Ark . Tulip went stiff the instant she heard it, knowing it wasn’t personal, anticipating the end of the pleasant evening. Kevin fumbled the phone from his pocket, checked the incoming number,