The Woman from Cheshire Avenue Read online

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the authors’ imaginations or are used factiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2011 by Ankhesen Mié. All rights reserved.

  Middle Child Press, Huntington, WV & Atlanta, GA

  Produced in the United States of America

  ISBN# 978-0-9831375-3-5

  Book design by Ankhesen Mié and Nita Moton

  Cover art by Michael Gibson

  Cover design by Nita Moton

  Ebook formatting by Nita Moton

  To all my readers – seriously, I don’t know what I’d do without you.

  To all my Narrators on the Blasian Narrative, who’ve become like family.

  To the brilliant and gifted Michael Gibson whose artwork graces this book.

  To my infamous Lady Jen de Pompei; sorry I took so long to come out with this, even though you edited it way back when.

  And to my sisters at Middle Child Press…I don’t think you people know just how much I love you.

  Always,

  Ankh

  “…Reading about a psychotic Neo-Nazi stalking a black woman is not my idea of quality entertainment. In the hands of a lesser writer, this plot would’ve been a disaster. However, author Ankhesen Mié not only makes it work but takes the narrative and the characters to unexpected places to keep you wanting to find out more.

  “…Mié also does an incredible job exploring the world of the Neo-Nazi culture and actually debunks the mystique and point out the truth in realistic manner… I haven’t seen exploration this intelligent since American History X.

  “I definitely enjoyed The Woman From Cheshire Avenue, but more than that, I’m eagerly awaiting The Velvet Hall.”

  — Dennis R. Upkins, author of Hollowstone

  Something about Being German

  There was just something about being German.

  When Eric Quisling was twelve, his father told him their family was pure German, descendants of great warriors, and heirs to the greatest bloodline on earth. And man, did Eric need to hear that! After all, he had nothing else going on for him in life. All the other guys in sixth grade were taller, playing sports, and getting to at least second base with girls. Not Eric. A skinny, pale blond, even paler-skinned personification of “awkward”, Eric spent most of his time hiding in the library of Cherrywood Middle School reading books and tutoring girls he could never have.

  But one day, Eric’s dad abandoned his drunken stupor for one shining moment and came through. He gave Eric just the right tiny push in a direction he could’ve never found on his own. After that, Eric remained in the library, but this time he wasn’t reading Arthurian legends and Greek myths. He closed the books on American history and literature. From that fateful day his father spoke without slurring for the first time in years, Eric started reading strictly about Germans.

  He read about the ancient tribes and learned their names (though he could barely pronounce them). He pored over tales of the Goths, and the nuisance they made themselves to the Roman Empire. Their bloody history brought a smile to his face…until he read about their defeat at the hands of Moors.

  Quickly skipping that part, Eric switched to Germany’s colonization efforts in Africa, thwarted after the demise of the Third Reich.

  Rewinding to right before that part, Eric found himself stuck reading about the Third Reich. Four years, eleven fights, three broken bones, a shaved head and a swastika necklace later, Eric got expelled for sexually harassing Miss Rosenberg, his sophomore biology teacher.

  In an ironic twist of fate, Eric’s father was finally declared an unfit parent the day he got expelled. All of a sudden, Mr. Quisling’s blatant parental incompetence became both obvious and intolerable. Eric was sent to live with his paternal grandparents on the south end of Cherrywood. That’s when Eric found out his family was actually Norwegian, not German, and his grandparents promptly stated in no uncertain terms there would be no “Nazi nonsense” in their house. Something to do with bad memories.

  So naturally, Eric packed his bags once more, and disappeared into the night.

  Of course, Eric didn’t tell his buddies about his true lineage. There was just something about being German which made him feel better, stronger, and like he never had to worry about himself again. When he first proudly told kids at school he was German, with relatives who had possibly served under Hitler himself, it had made everyone pause and look somewhat uncomfortable. He liked that; he’d always liked that…they never ignored him again. But when his grandparents told him he was actually Norwegian, named after Eric the Red no less, he simply looked at them the way he knew his friends would look at him now: thoroughly unimpressed and completely disinterested.

  Yep, German. He was definitely sticking with German.

  Not that he understood a single word of it; being out of school had that type of drawback.

  In the meantime, Eric found a crew from the streets willing to let him go on a couch tour until he could afford his own place. The group was headed by then twenty-something James Heilbronner, who nicknamed himself “Aryan.” Impressed by Eric’s rather educated speech and his diamond blond hair, he made himself an important part of Eric’s life…and many, many promises.

  Like this one now. Over a decade after Eric moved to the streets to find a new life, Aryan’s first promises of wealth and power were slowly coming to fruition in the chilly basement of an abandoned warehouse. Eric didn’t know what pissed him off more, the fact his crew had sunken so low, or that they’d sunken so low and he had to revisit his father’s old neighborhood.

  Land the deal. A single instruction from Aryan, and yet the most difficult one Eric had ever had to follow.

  Just land the fucking deal. I’ve already done the hard work, believe me. Now, I need you to just handle this final part.

  All he had to do was get the Asians to front them the stuff and convince them they’d get paid in a few days. But this was far easier said than done, because the Hirosawa family had sent a man who really loved to hear himself talk.

  “…the gangster Moretti used to own this warehouse,” Michael Hirosawa was saying. “He used it for meetings with his enemies. He’d bring them wine and girls to ease the tension.” At the clueless look on the Neo-Nazi faces, Michael asked, “You didn’t know? It was about forty years back, when the mafia still ran this town. How fitting Aryan should require us to meet here.” Michael, who was the irritating definition of “tall, dark, and handsome,” was so articulate it made Eric sick to his stomach.

  You’re the one who stayed in school the longest, Eric. It’s gotta be you. This guy, he ain’t no Asian nerd, if that’s what you’re expecting. And he ain’t no half-witted refugee either. He knows all about the way of the street…and then some.

  What was most annoying was that even in the callous light of a single dangling bulb in a cold, empty basement, the man still looked flawless. Long, shiny black hair, as though made of pure silk. A crisp, new dark blue suit—the most expensive thing Eric had ever seen. And cologne, whose combination of musk and clean spice redefined the very concept of elegance.

  Eric, on the other hand, hadn’t showered in two days. All his necklaces and ear piercings were grimy. His white tank top and army pants were somewhat clean, but under his clothes, his angry stomach growled. In Michael’s presence, he was feeling inexplicably self-conscious about his spiked blond hair. He was the only natural blond in the crew, and he was so blond he didn’t need to bleach. It had earned him the kind of envy which bred disdain, and a daily barrage of taunts and back-handed compliments. Today, as they’d trudged through the quiet nigh
t up to north end, had been no exception. All of this put Eric in no mood to do business.

  Michael’s heavily armed associates lurking in the shadows weren’t much different from their leader; but then again, these Hirosawa guys were—oddly enough—infamous for their looks. Eric vaguely recalled some saying about the Hirosawas were like angels, but only in looks.

  “Aryan’s still laid up outside the city,” Eric told him bluntly. “Your boys did quite a number on him.”

  Michael chuckled, and there was nothing funny about it. In fact, it was downright eerie. “You caused quite bit of damage yourself, as I recall,” he smirked. “I liked that little move you did with the blade. Forty-eight stitches, my boy had to get.”

  “It wasn’t personal.”

  “No,” Michael snickered, looking deeply amused. “Business never is.”

  “Anyways,” Eric went on, eager for the meeting to conclude, “Aryan will have your money on the twelfth. He’d get it to you sooner, but the whole shattered-arm-and-ribs thing is kinda slowin’ him down.”

  And if it were up to me, I would just kill you all and take the shit. You sure as hell don’t deserve the cash. The money was a result of a whole lot of mugging, breaking and entering, dealing, and during really bad dry spells, some dishwashing. Eric already disliked entrusting the money to Aryan; especially since he chose to spend it all at once—on this—even less.

  For some odd reason, Michael remained amused. “Twelfth it is. I’ve done some good business in this town already, and my superiors think we can smooth over our initial…misunderstanding.” There was a strange pause, and Eric didn’t like the indescribable look in Michael’s eyes. There was something dark and deadly in those eyes, despite his sweet, cheerful smile.

  It passed. Michael gracefully, almost comfortably, turned his back to Eric and walked away, tossing a final comment over his shoulder.

  “Love the hair, by the way.”

  Comebacks were never Eric’s strongest suit; he usually discouraged backtalk violently instead of verbally. Impulsive, he shot back, “It’s why I love being German,” and subsequently felt the urge to kill himself.

  * * *

  “I hate German.”

  “You have to take German, Kendra,” Lilith Wells reminded her younger sister, murmuring routinely from behind her pale purple clipboard. “German’s all that’s left when you take too long to register for summer classes.”

  Kendra rolled her dark brown eyes and ran her hand through her head of light brown micro-braids. She tapped her right foot, sheathed in some shiny, black, four hundred-dollar Italian shoe. When that didn’t grab her sister’s attention, she pushed the clipboard out of the way.

  “I hate German,” she repeated. “You should talk to Dad and convince him to let me start my foreign languages next semester.”

  Lilith snorted. “It’s not Dad who needs convincing, sweetie—it’s the school. And in case you haven’t noticed, the school is not convinced. You’ve put off a lot of shit for the past three years,” she said, turning back to the intimidating stack of first edition history books on her office desk. “Already two of your friends have graduated.”

  Kendra dropped the Gucci bag she’d charged yesterday onto her sister’s desk and chortled, “Why yes, Lilith. They did. And now they work in offices at least three times the size of yours.”

  Lilith sighed and wearily rolled her eyes to hide the sting of Kendra’s retort. She had asked the director to give her a bigger office for over three years now. The room she was in now was tiny, but she’d made the best of it. She put a floor lamp in a corner; its dim light filled the room with a calming golden color. Her father had given her an imported Persian rug to congratulate her for getting the job. She also put in fake plants (real ones would die due the noticeable lack of windows) and a tiny portable electric fountain. The sound of flowing water was soothing, and in addition to the New Age-type music she always played, it kept her from killing everyone on the fourth floor of the Annabelle Jean Justice Library.

  “Gee, Ken. You sure know how to ask for a favor,” Lilith sighed, moving around her sister to sit in her black chair. At least that was comfortable enough, and had wheels. She reached for her dark green coffee mug, took a sip, realized it was sickeningly cold, but smoothly played it off. “And at least I have an office, Kendra. You have nothing but a mountain of debt steadily growing higher, and the delusion that our father is going to bail you out come graduation day…whenever that is.”

  Uncertainty flickered in her sister’s eyes as she neutrally asked, “Dad’s…cutting me off?”

  The decision wasn’t actually confirmed, but there was no way Lilith was actually going to share that particular tidbit with her sister.

  Lilith was wearing a black skirt and white blouse she purchased at the mall for less than a hundred dollars. Her silver heels had cost less than forty. Her perfume was actually a reasonably priced body splash. Her dark roots were showing, courtesy of overdue highlights, and some of her French tips had chipped. Her knees were ashy and she left her bottle of four-dollar hand lotion on the bathroom sink this morning. She hadn’t had sex in three months, and had been single for seven. For the first time in what seemed a far too long time, Lilith finally had the high ground in a situation. And if Kendra wanted that high ground, she was going to have to pry it from Lilith’s cold, dead fingers.

  “Can you blame him?” Lilith shrugged instead, feigning haplessness. “You’re not seventeen anymore; you’re twenty-two. So act twenty-two. Get a job. Get a degree.” She snapped a ledger shut for effect. “And get the hell out.”

  Lightning

  The Neo-Nazis tended to hang their hats near the south end of Cherrywood, on the corner of Sixth and Eva. Too far north of town indicated “trash” and that wasn’t the label they were going for. South, on the other hand, indicated just enough of a touch of class and confidence. Not that anyone ever really saw them. The crew often walked about with their shaved heads or spiked hair, and their jackets emblazoned with swastikas. Most of them were suspects in numerous assaults, robberies, and homicides. Some of them had warrants, and when that happened, they took refuge at a safehouse just outside town. Thanks to Aryan, and his over a decade-long reign of slaughter, beatings, and theft, the whole crew had to permanently keep a low profile now.

  The diner on their corner was filled with fat, old sympathizers who often bought the guys beers and cheese fries in exchange for tales of exploits. When nighttime came, they wanted to hear about every stabbing, shooting, and bludgeoning. They especially wanted to hear kill counts, and usually Eric was the first to oblige them. For a free meal, he’d tell just about anyone whatever they wanted to hear, so long as they weren’t a cop.

  But tonight, courtesy of the Hirosawa shipment, Eric was quiet, having bought his own dinner and savoring every bite of the first steak he’d had in weeks.

  “…and Eric, over there? He’s fucked up at least twelve niggers this year,” Bobby “Shoelace” Rheinholdt was saying. “He’s stabbed at least three wetbacks too. And last week, when we had a meet with some slopes, he fucked one of them up real good. We found out today that the fucker had to get fifty-eight stitches.”

  Forty-eight, Eric thought to himself, but didn’t bother to say. Shoelace was a good kid. He had blazing green eyes and, back before he buzzed it, a head of healthy dark brown hair. He was a bit too obsessed with talking about lynching and stabbing (though Shoelace had never—probably could never—actually hurt anyone), but what he lacked in brainpower he more than made up for in loyalty. It was precisely why Eric chose him as his own right-hand man. As long as he was running things in the city while Aryan was out on the mend, Eric wanted someone who would simply shut up and obey.

  When he finished eating Eric went to the bathroom where he treated himself to a floss and quick wipe-down, using the cheap antibacterial soap on his arms, legs, chest and neck. By the time he got out, it was almost three in the morning, and all he wanted was to head back to his tiny apartment, w
here he could collapse on his bed and forget about everything.

  Unfortunately for him, as soon as Eric Quisling stepped out of the diner, a beat-up ’86 Toyota pulled up and the rear passenger door practically fell open. Inside was the dark-browed Derek Hirsch, who uttered five bitter words.

  “Aryan wants to see you.”

  * * *

  Confidence was indeed a strange thing.

  After Lilith successfully kicked her sister out of her office yesterday—for the first time, by the way—she suddenly had the courage to leave work early. She finally realized her coworkers barely noticed her when she was there, so it seemed safe to say they’d hardly miss her when she was gone. From her office she went to a salon, and as fortune would have it, Letoya had an opening. After her hair was retouched, dyed a deep, rich burgundy, and curled, she had her nails fixed and polished. After that, she treated herself to a newer, more costly pair of silver heels.

  She hadn’t been watching her figure since her rut began (she felt comfortable enough with herself now to admit it was a rut), but fortunately she was still a good size, without any new stretch marks or rolls. Even so, she felt renewed today, so she ate a light dinner, rubbed on a clay facial mask, and soaked languorously in a bubble bath while it hardened.

  It all began with Cory.

  Since she was being honest with herself, and comfortably so, Lilith allowed herself to mentally mention a name she’d tried to forget for months.

  Seven, to be exact.

  She waited for the pangs, the twinges and throbs of anxiety, of the shame that accompanied failure, but the feelings never came. The most painful part of being left wasn’t being left…just not caring about being left.

  Lilith closed her eyes and sank deeper into her bathtub, savoring the searing warmth. The water helped to stave off the rising inner cold of which her family often accused her. Kendra often said Cory left because Lilith was emotionally frigid. And though her father often held his tongue, Lilith always knew Frederick blamed her for the breakup.