Syeda was ready. She'd got a lead. Grabbing her bright turquoise Canada goose jacket off a hook, she got her Nike 270Gs on (a birthday present from Halima that Syeda had now finally found a suitable occasion to wear; what else had she to run in?) and rushed out the door. This shouldn't take long.

Having had a quick peer through some security camera recordings, she'd tracked someone coming along to her house through a specific route, and delivering the incriminating envelope with her father's picture. 

As Syeda raced along the alleyway, following the route the stranger had taken to its very beginning, she couldn't help a victorious, predatory smile that unconsciously rested on her lips.

 She'd gotten to the bottom of this. She'd solved the puzzle. 

She was done.

What in heliocentric model of the Solar System could this mean?

Racing through the alley, Syeda's catflick-lined eyes widened with triumph (she'd been bored in her study break and hadn't thought she'd be going out). 

They now had nowhere to turn.

She'd trapped them.

The rapid breathing had been audible for some time now... So quick, and low-pitched. It could be none but a child. A little... boy?

She turned the corner in the dingy, brick-walled alleyway, into the dead end. And there she saw him.

The child appeared to be African. Having grown up in non-ethnically diverse towns all her life, Syeda had only ever seen other races on TV (apart from Elyka, the one Filipino in school). And of course, Halima, her guardian. But apart from them, there weren't many 'different' people in Faireville, her now-hometown. And it didn't look like that would change, what will all the anti-immigration movements in the leading Nationalist political party.

Now that she saw this (apparently) fundamentally different creature, all she could think was: how small he was. How scruffy. 'Where are his parents?' she thought with an up-curling of her lip. It was detestable the state some people left their children in; his grey jersey shirt (a make of material so thin and cheap no one should be cumbered to wear it) was food-stained and his black tracksuits... The fact that the colour made anything staining them invisible didn't give comfort to anyone but the wearer. If that.

He was skinny, Syeda noted disapprovingly. Very skinny. His arms were as slim as a small dog's bone. Syeda couldn't prevent the current of dull shock that passed through her as she realised. Did such poverty exist in this town? In adults, okay, at a stretch, but children?

She felt strangely repulsed.

"What is your name, boy?" Syeda spat.

"C-, C-.."

"I can't hear you." Syeda whispered lethally.

"Curly, miss." The boy croaked out of pure fear, his small head angled downwards as he kept his gaze on only the floor, the skin of his head visible through his tightly coiled but thin corkscrews of black-brown hair.

'Curly'? Strange. And this... scrap of a person was the one leaving her notes? 

It couldn't be.

"Curly." Syeda whispered threateningly. "Did you come to 66 Larkspur Avenue recently? To drop something off? A brown envelope?". She held out the item in question.

The boy nodded hurriedly, his body vibrating with the motion, eyes flicking from the item onto the floor, then resting there.

"Who gave you the instructions?" Syeda's whisper had become quieter, but in the blue-black dead-end of this alleyway, a waxing moon shining the only solitary light and a silent, fragile breeze the only motion, her quieted voice sounded loud and clear.

"Mister."

"Mister who?"

The boy looked up, eyes large and round. "I don't know. He found me on Brookland street." Ah, that notorious market street with beggars around, thought Syeda.

"He told me the address, and gave me the envelope to give." He spoke in a hushed tone.

"Any payment?" Asked Syeda, face and tone void of expression.

The boy looked as if he'd hoped she wouldn't ask. He then fished out a small item from his pocket.

"This." Looking at it, Syeda was bemused, but held out her hand. He placed the item in it; Syeda looked at it curiously. But she'd got all she was going to from this boy.

"Well, thank you for your time, Mister Curly." Syeda placed the item in her pocket and nodded to the boy. Looking at him for a moment, she thought of something.

"Here. I'm not a charitable woman, but here." Syeda held out a few  coins and the boy opened his hands together to accept them gratefully.

"It's better to give than to receive." Syeda mumbled to herself, remembering something her father had once told her.

"Will that be okay, child?" The kid nodded, staring at his £6.20 as if it were gold from Aladdin's cave.

Syeda stared at him expressionlessly for a moment. Then she walked away, the boy staring from her to the money and back to her, the cycle repeating. He wanted to croak a thank you, but the words wouldn't come. Soon she was out of sight.

Dialing a call, she spoke to someone shortly and curtly. Then she returned to the boy. "Come with me, child."

Syeda placed her hand on the door's authentication pad, and it swung open open. As she entered with Curly, she saw Halima in her prayer clothes and sat on a mat doing dhikr (remembrance). Must've finished praying Maghrib.

Halima turned to gasp as she saw Curly."Who's this?" Halima gaped, surprised and accusing at the same time. Syeda had never brought friends (or anyone) home in her life. It was like raining puppies; everyone knew (or at least Halima did) that despite Halima's efforts, it never going to happen. Until today apparently.

"We're muslims. Aren't we supposed to feed the poor and shelter the orphans?" Syeda responded pointedly, removing and hanging her coat, bag and scarf up. Then she looked the tall, confused, jilbab-wearing woman in the eyes.

"Yes, of course, but-" Halima interjected.

"It's a homeless kid off the streets, Halima. As people, we're usually happy turning a blind eye, but I didn't feel like turning a blind eye today." Halima's gaze flicked back to the small grimacing child, whose eyes were resolutely stuck to the floor, refusing to look up, his hands gripped together tightly. 

"But it's alright. Someone's coming to get him in fifteen minutes."

And they did. A car parked up, a man and woman came in and had a lengthy chat with Syeda and Halima, recorded their statements and questioned the child who spoke quiet as a mouse. Soon, both were gone. Social Services had taken care of it. Just like they had of her, Syeda thought icily.

Syeda and Halima began to tidy up the tea and biscuits they'd served Mr. And Mrs. Social Security, putting everything away, neatening the living room, and Halima took the cups to wash up.

As Syeda was on her way upstairs to analyse the Item, she noticed her lopsided coat on the coat rack. She moved to fix it and have it hanging asymmetrically, when something dropped from its hood to the floor. Syeda's eyes flicked downwards. A small white piece of paper. With writing... A note?

Syeda's brow furrowed. She picked up the piece of paper, and read it.

It was form time. Everyone was sat together in the morning, when the teacher put on kids news (though a few of the class had already become adults) and students had any paperwork or letters given to them.

Sephora, head prefect with her bright blue multi-badged sash, took the role with glee. Anything to prove her authority.

Looking at one envelope on her bundle, she smirked, and walked up to Francis Montpelier, all but chucking it at him. "Hey hotshot, internal deadline for work experience was Monday." She said snidely, while smiling sweetly.

"But-but it said on the school website Wed-" Francis spluttered. It'd be a miracle if Sephora ever let someone completely speak before she interjected.

"Yeah, well this was a company application, and their response won't be back soon enough for you to start in January." Her tone was condescending. Off-putting. Dissuading-from-argument. She leaned closer. "Better luck next time, Franz Kafka*. To play again, try next year."

'When I'll have graduated, sure.' thought Frank glumly.

"What's your problem?" Frank suddenly snapped. He hadn't realised his voice had risen. Students in the class started to pay attention.

"I'm sorry?" Offence was quick to find its way on Sephora's features.

'Sorry my as*, don't act.' Frank nearly said.

"Please don't  presume us students are under any misconception about how you actually became Head Prefect, Sephora Wright." He said firmly, ominously. Most students and human-teachers knew how her parents were good, influential  friends with the Headteacher. Who sadly wasn't a bias-proof robot. 

A chorus of whispering had started. "There's a way to, ah,  communicate with others." Just because Sephora's family had managed to squeeze into the 'Upper' class category through a distant aunt, didn't mean she had to treat the school population of Mids and Lowers like trash.

This is why he hated the Class system. People felt they'd been given an official licence to act like prigs. 

"I really am at a loss as to who you think you are. A stultus asinus is the only answer my mind can fathom. Or perhaps Old Queen Charlotte, that the world is not only going to listen to you but salute alongside."

People were listening intently. There was a pin-drop silence. Even robo-teacher was watching with the ever-present smile. One thing those teachers had problems with was de-escalating situations that weren't obviously loud or physical fights.

Frank was sick of Sephora putting people down. It'd been going on since practically primary school.The little Year 7s she'd yelled at and made cry because they'd 'annoyed' her. Her clique that gossiped and told tales about the whole school (apparently his code name was 'Rank'. Nice.). Just the way she spoke to people. The time in Year 8 when she'd deliberately shoved him through the classroom door (he'd been awfully twiggy then) to 'hurry him up'.

He hadn't said anything then. He'd never said anything any of those times. But this was their last year of Secondary School (sixth form, technically), and before they headed off to university, he wanted to sort this out. He had failed at standing up for the people Sephora had taken advantage of and casually abused. The least, most cowardly, most selfish type, the absolute minimum standing-up he could do, was to stand up for himself.

Perhaps he wasn't being the most diplomatic about it. But when she'd happily been the harbinger of his lawyer dreams getting crushed, why act like it?

"Let's forget about the Headteacher. We all know you're  besties. How about  I contact the School Governors with a long list of every offence you've ever committed, every unacceptable thing you've ever said to anyone, some of which I'm sure you are aware are rather serious. We wouldn't want to think about the consequences it would have on your record. Which of course is irreparable."

Sephora looked taken aback, but instantly sneered. "You've got nothing on me, Rank."

Frank smiled serenely back (though he really couldn't believe his guts; he previously didn't know he had this much). "You're willing to test that?"

His dreams (life, potentially, if he felt put off enough to forget law) may have been shattered to pieces; but if push came to shove, he was more than happy to return the bountiful favour.

He was an adult now. Perhaps the quiet nerd who never said much needed to realise this, to finally grow up. 

Syeda couldn't focus in class. Again. Something was at the back of her mind, niggling its way into her thoughts.

What was she going to do?

The message that had dropped from her coat's hood proven to be cryptic. 'Not under. Above'.

Syeda knew what was above. The stars and their constellations. The planets and their moons. The near and far galaxies (even though astrophysics was largely a bit inapplicable and wishy washy for her tastes). But she knew.

Maybe the sender had meant...

Syeda thought, brows creased. She thought of one event, its probability, then another event, and its probability, and then another. She did the statistics and likelihood for each in her head. Hopefully she wouldn't have to advance to her Meditation Method in her history lesson. Then she'd have to be prepared for however long it took.

She looked around the classroom. Elyka was asking question upon question about the Nazi Germany topic from Mr. Husnain (oh yeah, that substitute, real teacher; apparently some kids had messed with Robo Teach and he needed repair). Christina (the typical socialite) and Sephora (snobby Head Prefect and dubiously Prom queen when they were 16. Apparently she was planning something dodgy this year too) were on their phones in a corner, whispering to each other intently every so often. Aaron (guy who came to school to warm the seats it seemed) was snoring, head on the table and arms crossed around his head (his neighbours had tried unsuccessfully to wake him up; Mr. Husnain was just beginning to notice). Frank (quiet, intelligent, respectable human being, one of few in the class) was sat next to him, strangely having a staring contest with the table in front of him, eyes flicking round the class quickly now and again. 

It'd been a while since she and Frank had had their confrontation. Though she had spoken venomously at the time, she held no real ill will towards him now. She didn't waste strong feelings on unimportant matters. 

Speaking of those, Syeda had heard from loud gossips that Sephora and Frank been together but had had a fight. He caught Syeda's eye; she didn't look away immediately. Syeda knew she wasn't excellent at reading people's emotions, but even she could see a flat sort of depression in his dark eyes. Then, a mild curiousity borne from boredom as he noticed her. But that just meant she was watching too long. She continued her perusal of the rest of the room. Most of the rest of the class looked dimly interested in the teacher's lecture while the regular few were sneakily trying to do something else.  

She glanced at a battered old Rolex watch of her father's (and grandfather's) that she regularly wore. She'd had to disguise it with a bit of fabric paint over any insignias (and a bit of opaque tape over the glass to cover the logo beneath it) so the dodgy students in her school wouldn't decide to make some quick cash.

The time was 2:26pm. Syeda rolled her eyes. When would this end? She needed to get home and use her combined tools of mental, physical and technical faculty together to get this mystery solved. As ridiculous as it sounded, a mystery this had now become.

Syeda fingered the pink and gold bracelet on her wrist, the golden beads reflecting her face and the surrounding light, while at the centre of each bead was a pink quartz-like gem.

It looked sophisticated, like something out of Tiffanys or similar. Syeda suspected the trademark tag from whichever store it had been from had been forcefully removed, evidenced from some deep scuffs in the metal at one point of the gold chain.

From her deduction, this bracelet was a clue to the mystery of her father's disappearance.

Of course, she had got this priceless, valuable item, from the penniless, rag-ridden boy.

Syeda's brows knitted together until there was a visible crease between them, one that wouldn't have been there a few days ago.

Someone was playing a game with her.

She removed the bracelet and, looking at it, clenched it in her fist until her nails made deep, red marks in her palm.

Whoever they were, she was going to make them pay. Be it in whatever currency.

Even in blood.

Summer looked at the line of children. "Where is he?" She spat.

"I don't know, Snow" a small girl, seeming semi-in charge, responded quietly. Summer rolled her eyes. Lazy brats.

What with Chris's apparent obligatory 'training' for a few hours every day, her kids had gone amok while she was gone.

"Repeat how much you guys made in total." Summer sighed and asked.

"£76.24" they all parroted.

"Exactly. You should all be ashamed. Even you, Sleepy." She looked at a kid whose scruffy black hair covered his eyes, wearing stylish trainers and a silver belt-chain. "We made £300 last week. What do y'all do when I'm gone? Sleep? I can't bear to look at you all."

"Remember, I don't care how you get it. The methods aren't my department. But to live in this nice big room, with decent hot food, and other kids your age to play with and understand... All I ask is a little rent in return, to pay the costs."

Summer sighed. "You're living in luxury, children. You have more than I had."

She narrowed her eyes as something else crossed her mind. "The security cameras saw. Curly got took by someone playing at being a do-gooder. Didn't he, Grumpy?" A kid standing a little ahead of the others nodded.

Summer exaggeratedly sighed again. "We know the government don't care about us, don't we, lovelies?"

They all responded loudly, almost fearfully: "Yes Snow."

"We know they'll just give us away, get rid of us like the scraps at a meat shop."

She stopped her pacing back and forth in front of them, to smile benevolently at them all. Dexter-Suleman stood behind her in the shadows, watching almost curiously at the children. What Summer had done to them was almost mesmerizing.

She beamed at each one of them. "I'm the only one who truly cares about you, lovelies." 

"Only me." 

Author's Sentence:

In case anyone didn't get it, the title means revenge. :)

I always look forward to your votes and comments! Thank you for the support!