Romans & histoires 221b Baker Street Flat

Even the engine sound sleek, a barely audible him that screams money. I eye him warily. "You don't have to, thank you. I'll go get my things myself tomorrow". He grips the steering wheel and turns back to me, a small plastered smile on his face. "And I insist. Now….". His smile widens. "....where is your apartment again?". I resist the urge to glare. "No. 24 Bamford Street, uptown". And we speed out of the driveway.

“It was the name we gave the boy when he was born. Then Dr. Hansen must have changed it.” “Let’s not stray from the topic,” Mark interrupted. “Where is that apartment?” “On Atlantic Avenue, I don’t know the name or number of the building, but it’s the only small diagonal to the subway station. The apartment is 6-B on the sixth floor. If the elderly are there they may help her, and if they are traveling she also has access to it because she takes care of it. If she was at home this morning, it means she shouldn’t be taking care of it.”

" She looked at me to see if I was patronising her. When she saw that I wasn't, she leant over and kissed me, and I felt the coolness of her lips on mine. "What's that for?" I ask. "For just being you." The taxi stops at Blanche's home, and she invites me in, which I dutifully accept. I don't want to be alone. Blanche lives in a listen Georgian terrace converted into the six flats overlooking Pymmes Brook parallel to Crescent Road in East Barnet. Her apartment is on the ground floor and has a walled garden with trellises and a small patio dotted with terracotta pots.

I hadn’t heard Corel’s voice ever since Keith rejected me. Maybe I had lost her forever, or maybe she was just too heartbroken to respond. I, however, liked to believe that she will talk to me once again. The taxi pulled into a large colony with twelve seven storeyed buildings. Signalling us to stop next to the gate, the security guard rushed over, “Whom are you visiting, ma’am?” “Ariana Hills. She lives in Flora, B-605.” “Don’t you know?” “What?” “She sold this flat about a month ago.”

Maybe even a little left over for the emergencies that always seemed to find her. She hated needing it this much. The flat belonged to Mia, who had moved to Manchester six months earlier and still described London rent as “legalised theft with mould.” By the time Elena reached the building, Leo was deeply asleep. The flat sat above a bakery on a narrow Islington street, and the smell of vanilla and warm bread drifted out into the rain. Elena paid the driver, wrestled the suitcase out, and carried Leo upstairs. The key stuck twice before the door finally opened.

I nodded. The call ended. I slumped into my seat, staring at the address on the paper. 820 Pixel Street — South Industrial District. Smart of Gary to move her somewhere forgotten. SODO was full of dead spaces — empty warehouses, low security, no questions. I called Axel. “820 Pixel Street. The building next to the old office block,” I said once the call connected. Axel hummed. “She’s there?” “She’s there. Get some men ready,” I said, exhaling.

Up above us, the long fluorescent light tubes buzzed with a low, constant hum that made my head ache. ​Alistair walked up to the counter first. "Hello. I am here to see my mother. Her name is Beatrice Vane." ​The receptionist looked up from her screen, her expression polite but completely blank. She typed a few quick strokes into her system, her eyes skimming down a list on the display. "She is in Room 412. Take the main elevator bank to the fourth floor, step out, and make a left down the hallway."

The neighborhood we’re currently standing in looks like it’s straight out of a horror movie—peeling, dilapidated buildings, rats scurrying up and down the street and a cat glaring at us from where it perches on top of a dumpster—and with the line up of sleek luxury cars we’d come in idling at the curb, we couldn’t stand out any more even if we tried. “You’re sure that’s the place?” Spencer asks, jerking his chin at the house with the number 15. It’s in exactly the same shape as the other houses, with a rusted staircase down the side that I don’t trust to carry my weight. There’s a total of three flats upstairs and from the information Adam provided, the last one is the one we’re looking for.

Lexi Three Years Earlier I look up in awe at the huge double fronted town house. I crane my neck as I look up as high as I can to see the very top of the house. Huh! I lean to the side to check the number on the pillar on the left-hand side of the door. Seventy-one. I look back at the scrap of paper in my hand. Lord and Lady Black, Seventy-one Richmond Street. It must be a mistake, there is no way I would ever be offered a potion to work in such a magnificent home as this, and for a Lord and Lady no less. Excitement bubbles up inside me and for the first time in months my face breaks in to a smile. Maybe today would be a good day after all.

I had no idea what was in store for me, and I dreaded what this mysterious Vic would show us. The building had several apartments above the Chinese restaurant, and I assumed they were probably similar to my bachelor pad—one room and a bathroom. They couldn’t be much bigger since the building was small. We walked down a dimly lit hallway until we stopped before a door marked 5B. I hesitated for a moment before knocking. Someone from within yelled to come in, so I opened the door.