We Used To Belong Here

Structural Damage

The cab lurched forward as the driver hit the gas, tires screeching against the wet asphalt of Queen’s Road.

Behind them, the silver sedan surged through the yellow light, its high beams cutting through the dark cabin like twin knives. Maya gripped the door handle, her knuckles white, her heart hammering so loudly it nearly drowned out the engine.

“Does he know where we’re going?” she asked, watching the headlights close the distance in the side mirror.

“No,” Kofi said, calm despite the tension in his voice. He leaned toward the driver. “Take the left on Commercial Way. Cut through the industrial estate.”

The weary-looking driver jerked the wheel left, sending the cab sliding around the corner. The sedan swung wide, its tires clipping the curb before straightening and continuing the pursuit.

“Chloe’s brother works for a private security firm,” Maya said, her thoughts racing. “He has access to local traffic cameras through his firm’s council contract. He’s tracking the cab’s registration.”

Kofi pulled out his phone and called his flatmate, Liam.

“Lift the shutter on the underground garage in three minutes.”

A drowsy voice answered. “Kofi? It’s two in the morning, man.”

“Liam, lift the shutter now. We’ll be at the gate in ninety seconds.”

“We have a vehicle pursuing us!” Maya shouted.

Silence.

Then came the sound of a bed frame creaking and feet hitting hardwood.

“Maya? Is that you? What the hell is going on?”

“Just hit the remote, Liam!” Kofi barked.

His usual composure cracked as the taxi shot through a blind junction. The silver sedan pulled alongside them, its driver swerving inward and forcing the cab toward the high brick wall of a disused timber yard.

Maya gasped and threw her hands against the glass.

The vehicles scraped.

A horrible metallic shriek tore through the quiet night as paint dragged against paint.

“Hold on!” the cab driver yelled.

He slammed the brakes.

The sedan overshot them by half a car length. Kofi immediately reached across Maya, pinning her safely against the back seat as the driver wrenched the wheel to the right and plunged into a narrow, unlit alley between two residential blocks.

Ahead, a heavy steel roller shutter was slowly grinding upward.

Beyond it waited a dimly lit underground parking garage.

The taxi shot beneath the rising steel lip with barely inches to spare.

The instant the rear bumper cleared the entrance, Liam, standing inside in sweatpants and a winter coat, punched a red button on the wall.

The shutter slammed down with a deafening hydraulic bang.

Outside, the silver sedan roared past the alley, its engine fading into the distance.

The cab engine died.

For several seconds, nobody spoke.

Only their heavy breathing and the rhythmic dripping of water from beneath the car broke the silence.

Maya sat frozen, her chest rising and falling rapidly. Kofi’s arm was still stretched across her collarbone. She looked down at his hand, then up at his face.

His jaw was tight, his eyes fixed on the shutter.

Slowly, Kofi withdrew his arm.

He cleared his throat and turned toward the driver.

“How much for the damage?”

The driver rubbed a hand over his face. “Three hundred for the side panel. Fifty for the fare.”

Kofi pulled four hundred-pound notes from his wallet and handed them over.

“Appreciate it. Stay inside for ten minutes, then leave through the back exit.”

Maya unbuckled her seat belt. Her legs felt like lead as she stepped onto the cold concrete. Her knees buckled, but Kofi caught her firmly beneath the elbow.

“I’ve got you,” he said quietly.

She pulled away, straightening her coat and smoothing her hair with trembling fingers.

“I’m fine.”

Liam approached, staring between them with wide eyes.

“Okay. Someone wants to tell me why Chloe’s psychotic brother was trying to pit-maneuver a Hackney carriage into a brick wall?”

“Julian panicked,” Maya said hollowly.

Her eyes dropped toward the two trash bags in the open boot of the cab.

“He realized he couldn’t manipulate his way out of the audit, so he tried to get my phone before I could send the backup files to my director.”

Liam looked at Kofi.

Kofi shook his head once, silently warning him not to push.

“Come upstairs,” Liam said. “The spare room’s clean. I put new sheets on the bed yesterday.”

Ten minutes later, Maya stood in the center of the spare room on the third floor of Liam’s converted warehouse apartment in Hackney.

The room was wide, cold and industrial, with exposed brick walls, high metal-framed windows and bare concrete floors softened by a single woven rug beneath a low platform bed.

It looked nothing like her warm, polished Peckham flat, with its velvet cushions, botanical prints and scented candles.

This place was stripped down and functional.

Kofi carried her two trash bags inside and placed them beside the closet before dropping a set of brass keys onto the wooden side table.

“Bathroom’s at the end of the hall on the left. Towels are in the basket.”

Maya stared at the keys.

“Why are you doing this, Kofi? You barely know me. You’re Marcus’s friend.”

Kofi paused at the doorway.

He turned back, his dark eyes sharp beneath the hallway light.

“Marcus is a coward who lets other people pay for his mistakes. I don’t keep cowards in my circle.”

Maya swallowed.

“And Julian?”

“Julian’s a fraud.”

Kofi’s voice was flat.

“He’s been copying my studio’s branding proposals and selling them to his clients as his own work for eighteen months. I was waiting for the right moment to gut his contract.”

He stepped back into the hallway.

“Get some sleep, Maya. Tomorrow morning, we go to war with your agency.”

He closed the door.

Maya remained still for a long moment before walking toward the window.

She pressed her forehead against the cold glass and looked down at the quiet Hackney street.

Then she saw it.

Parked directly across the road beneath a flickering streetlamp was the silver sedan.

Its headlights were off.

A faint orange glow from a cigarette burned inside the driver’s window.

Maya backed away from the glass.

They hadn’t lost her.

Her phone chimed.

She looked down.

An incoming video file had arrived from an anonymous burner account.

Her stomach tightened.

She tapped the screen.

The video was only twenty seconds long.

It showed her bedroom in Peckham.

Her bedroom.

The footage had been recorded two weeks earlier while she was asleep.

Julian sat at her desk, copying her corporate security keys onto an external hard drive.

Chloe stood in the doorway, watching him.

Laughing quietly.

Maya’s blood ran cold.

She stared at the screen, unable to breathe.

Then she noticed the caption beneath the video.

Publish this, and we release the rest of the bedroom tapes.