In the Fogs of London: Jane Cornaro

By Jennie L. Morris

Held at gunpoint, cold metal pressed against her temple, Jane prepared to die for a secret.

 

Two years later, Jane is a barista at an artsy café in London's Dalston neighborhood. She lives in obscurity. Every moment of every day, meticulously planned for her safety.

 

Closing the café for the night, she hears the clatter of the bell above the door. Death waits for her, rolling in with the fog. But some mysteries are too important to take to the grave.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jennie L. Morris
• Release date: Aug 24, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201176631

Book preview

Preface

I checked and re-checked. All the test runs failed. Pedro sat behind three computer monitors. His eyes darted between them as he chewed on a pen cap. Am I missing something?

The night shift at Ascension Collective Tech suited her. She transferred last year, needing the shift-differential to help pay for the mortgage. The change brought added benefits; she liked heading the new security research division, and her two co-workers were hilarious. They had a private office, where they fiddled with ACT’s classified projects.

I see the same thing, replied Anton. He scrolled through the data on a tablet.

She swung her chair to the nearby desk. All the tests failed? Again? We sent the report last month. There shouldn’t be an issue this close to launch.

Want me to try again? Pedro offered.

No. We’ve run hundreds of simulations. I’ll send another urgent e-mail to the department heads. We did all we can on our end. It’s not on us. She opened her email, ready to compose the third message about the faulty programming in the security software. The other two went unanswered, but she traced them through ACT’s system and knew they were delivered. How’s it going with the other job?

Smiling, Anton and Pedro swiveled to face her. The latest program was unique, like a sparkly toy to run through its paces.

It’s freaking amazing! Anton gushed, tapping his Chuck Taylors against the chair’s castors. Revolutionary.

Pedro chuckled, It has numerous practical uses. But—

Yeah. Possible clusterfuck in the wrong hands. I’m on the fence. She stopped typing, hearing an odd noise. Before she could speak, the door inched open. An unfamiliar man entered. He withdrew a black pistol from beneath his suit jacket.

Open-mouthed, she watched Pedro and Anton slump in their chairs, matching bullet holes in their foreheads. Blood and brains sprayed the computer screens, walls, and floor behind them. She raised her hands, on the brink of hyperventilating.

The man placed the gun against her temple. Cold metal dug into her flesh.

Pay attention, he stated, voice as dry as the salt flats. Or you’ll end up like your friends…

Chapter One

Jane considered the combination of steamed almond milk and rich, black espresso as a metaphor—for global warming, for the geopolitical situation in the Middle East, for what exactly? It was a good metaphor…or was it a simile? It was closing in on midnight, and her brain refused to wander into coffee shop philosophy. It switched to blocking out the warbling music in the background. Mika, a usual night owl, spoke in his quiet manner on the blustery weather. His striped scarf wrapped around his tall, thin body like an endangered Amazonian snake. She nodded when appropriate, and Mika continued the one-sided discussion.

Pouring the double shot vanilla caramel latte into the compostable cup was comical. The up-charge for the green products made the customers happy. They felt good about their impact on the environment. Yet, they demanded plastic stirrers and agave nectar packets. She rang up the order at the till and then watched the man head out into the autumnal darkness, serpent scarf constricted tight.

Alone, Jane continued with the shop’s closing routine. The industrial dishwasher hummed, and all the chrome and glass surfaces gleamed. She already cleaned the recycled cork and bamboo flooring. Tuesdays were slow, a reason she liked the shift.

When her watch showed midnight, Jane locked the door and turned off the neon signage. She went to the back and killed the horrendous indie music piping through the sound system. Kazoos shouldn’t be the headliner of a whole album, in her opinion.

She liked being a barista at Gritty Graffiti Grinds. The trendy café attracted young, eager patrons fighting for a cultural revolution with their caffeine drinks and vegan pastries in hand. Near the cramped sitting area was a platform for poetry readings, live music, and the occasional performance art experience. The adjoining shop was a high-end art gallery.

The owner, Queenie-B, was a classically trained painter. She flitted between her two businesses throughout the day in a rainbow-stained smock. Near sixty, she had the vivacity of a twenty-year-old. Jane wanted to blame copious amounts of caffeinated beverages for the woman’s gusto; however, she indulged in decaf coffee or herbal tisanes. They kept her special blends aside, ready to brew when she arrived.

When Jane interviewed for the position, she was unqualified and understated. Queenie-B loved bright, bubbly people with prominent personalities. The two-week trial period turned into a full-time job when the customers thought the aloof American added a certain gravitas. She was okay with being a showpiece if it meant a steady income. Jane found consistent employment challenging. No one wanted to hire an unknown whose references came from across the Atlantic Ocean.

Jane affixed the lid on the extra-large jasmine green tea, her treat for the trip home. The shop was secured for the night, ready for the morning shift. She buttoned up her thrifted wool peacoat, pulled on an oversized knitted cap, and slung her messenger bag across her chest.

Few people filled Dalston’s sidewalks in the blustery weather. Locals were either tucked around pub tables or at home, watching late-night telly programs. She kept to the main roads, avoiding shortcuts through unlit alleyways or parks. For two years, Jane dealt with the temperamental seasons of the island country. She missed endless sunshine, dry heat, cacti, and wearing sandals. She missed Arizona.

She reached her third-floor flat in twenty minutes. Closing the door, Jane turned the doorknob lock, engaged the deadbolt, latched the barrel bolt, and slid the chain lock in place. She shoved the security bar underneath the doorknob and wedged it against the tile floor. The ritual wasn’t negotiable; her survival depended on diligence. Jane checked the locks and braces on all the windows.

Her flat was beyond minimalist. Bulky furniture obscured the line of sight. An intruder could use a bureau or wardrobe as a hiding place. She rented the studio for a reason, and money wasn’t the issue.

The café’s coffee aroma saturated her clothing’s fibers and expanded into a phone-booth-sized bathroom. Jane undressed. She adjusted the water temperature before stepping beneath the pitiful shower head. All her bath products smelled clean, utilitarian, masculine. Citrus cut through the coffee better than any floral fragrance, and men’s soap worked better.

Using a rough towel, she dried off and put on her mismatched sleep clothes. Her black hair tucked into a terrycloth headwrap; she applied a cold avocado and honey facial mask. She used to eat avocados, not wear them. She set a timer for five minutes, tried a mini-meditation session, and then washed her face.

When she finished in the bathroom, Jane went to the kitchen-dining area to put on the electric kettle. At her dinette table, she logged onto her computer and went through the lengthy process of connecting to the internet through proxy servers, hiding her IP address. Without her old equipment, it could take upwards of thirty minutes to get a secure connection. She wasn’t in a hurry.

Slurping instant noodles, Jane scanned the dark web. On occasion, she accepted side jobs for ready cash. Money bought her peace of mind; it was a security. She learned and adapted out of necessity. Through the last few years, the best lessons came from her failures. All sorts of