Читать книгу A Place of Safety - Helen Black, Black Helen Cecelia - Страница 11

Snow White came from a long line of brave soldiers.

Grandpa had fought in the Second World War and Father had worked bomb disposal in Northern Ireland for over ten years. Taking difficult, often unpalatable, decisions was in her blood.

By her father’s sixth posting and her corresponding move to the sixth different school she had stopped blubbing and discovered that a swift smack in the mouth made the loudest of tormentors keep their distance. Her transition to boarding school had been softened by this knowledge.

Whenever one of Daddy’s platoon was blown to smithereens he would get as pissed as fart and sing at the top of his voice: ‘No surrender, no surrender, no surrender to the IRA.’ He’d go back to work the next day nursing a sore head and throat, and a new man would be learning the ropes.

She turned on the local radio station and went on to the Internet. The home page told her that a singer, whose head reminded her of a round sweaty cheese, had overdosed on drugs, a wildly talented footballer had been found in bed with an eleven-year-old boy, and the Chancellor was warning of another hike in interest rates.

The Manor Park shooting had not made the headlines. In fact, Snow White could find no mention of it anywhere. It had been well and truly hushed up.

No doubt it was better for all involved if matters remained as they were. Questions from the press would only be painful and intrusive for the parents involved.

She logged on to her favourite site and started a new post.

Asylum Seekers Gun Down Children Snow White at 8.10

Yes, you heard correctly.

Yesterday afternoon, two asylum seekers armed themselves and shot at pupils at Manor Park Preparatory School in Hertfordshire.

She sat back and waited for the thread to start buzzing. Sometimes, for the greater good, difficult decisions had to be made.

The noise was overwhelming. At least fifty clients, solicitors and barristers were crammed into the narrow corridor, and every single one of them seemed to be shouting. Lilly grimaced and searched for a clear space to devour the sandwich that was burning a hole in her pocket.

Only the prayer room was free.

‘Figures,’ she muttered, and slipped inside.

She pushed the Qur’an to one side and laid out her bacon butty. She wished now that she’d gone for cheese, but hunger dispelled her guilt. She opened her mouth for the first salty bite when the door opened.

‘Are you looking for Jesus?’ asked Jack.

‘I think the poor man’s got enough on without Luton County Court.’

Jack looked old and sad and tired.

‘Jesus, I’m starving,’ he said.

‘If you think I’m sharing you’re hoping for a miracle,’ she replied. ‘And the man in that line of business is out.’

‘You’re a heartless woman.’

She looked from Jack to the sandwich and back again and split it in half. ‘This is a true mark of our friendship.’

They chewed in silence until Jack wiped his hands on his jeans.

‘Everything okay?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘You?’

‘Been better,’ he answered.

She touched his thumb with her own. ‘You had no choice, Jack.’

He nodded. ‘Doesn’t make it any easier, though, does it?’

‘He was out of control,’ she said. ‘Anyone could see that.’

He gave a doubtful shrug.

‘Seriously, Jack, I was bloody terrified.’

They sat in silence while Lilly racked her brain for something positive to say. How did you make someone who had just killed a child feel any better about themselves?

‘At least the press haven’t got wind of it,’ she said.

‘And how long do you think that will last?’

‘They can’t criticise you, Jack,’ she said.

He shrugged. She understood Jack well enough to know he didn’t care less what the newspapers might say. He had spent the night asking himself what he could have done differently. Hadn’t she been asking herself the same question about her conversation with Artan?

‘What happens now?’ she said.

‘Got to get back to the station,’ he said. ‘More questions, more reports.’

‘Then what?’

‘I’ll be suspended pending the outcome of the investigation.’

‘That doesn’t seem right.’

‘I did shoot someone, Lilly’

‘He would have killed you,’ she said. ‘Or maybe me, or maybe Sam.’

Jack scratched his chin, his nails making a rasping sound against the stubble. ‘It’s standard procedure, and I’m on full pay so it’s not all bad.’

Lilly knew he was playing it down and felt obliged to join in. ‘You won’t know what to do with yourself.’

‘I’ll take up a hobby,’ he said.

‘I hear stamp collecting’s fun.’

He gave her a wink. ‘Or you could keep me busy.’

She pulled him towards her by his lapels and kissed him with greasy lips. ‘I’ll tell you what you can do for me.’

‘Is it dirty?’

‘Oh, yeah,’ she said. ‘You can start by fixing my dishwasher’

‘Miss Valentine?’

Lilly and Jack looked up. A man in his mid-twenties stood in the doorway and fixed them with the greenest eyes Lilly had ever seen. They were beautiful yet startling in their intensity.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m looking for Lilly Valentine.’

Lilly was mesmerised.

‘Lilly?’ said Jack, one eyebrow raised.

She coughed. ‘Yes. That’s me.’

The man moved towards her, hand outstretched. She took it in her own, felt the cool smoothness of it.

‘And you are?’ said Jack.

‘Milo,’ said the man, still holding Lilly’s hand and her gaze.

‘And what can we do for you today, Milo?’ asked Jack.

‘I need to speak with Miss Valentine.’ He didn’t even glance in Jack’s direction. ‘In private.’

‘So, Milo,’ said Lilly. ‘How can I help you?’

‘I work with the residents at Hounds Place.’ He spoke with the deep clipped tones of an Eastern European.

‘Social services?’

He shook his head, hair falling into his eyes.

‘I’m a volunteer,’ he said. ‘I offer advice, and help with the language. A shoulder to lean on, I think you call it.’

‘I see,’ she said. But in truth she didn’t.

He opened his arms as if to explain. ‘When I came here there was no one to help. No one to explain. And so.’

And so, thought Lilly, this strange and dazzling man did what he could for those that needed it the most.

‘What is it you need me to do?’ she asked.

‘Charles Stanton is dead.’

‘Shit.’

‘Anna Duraku is at the police station.’

‘The girl up at the school?’

Milo gave a single nod.

‘And?’ asked Lilly.

‘She needs a good lawyer.’

Lilly scribbled the name of a firm in Luton who specialised in criminal law and handed it to Milo. He took the piece of paper and folded it in half.

‘She would like you to represent her.’

‘I can’t.’ Lilly shook her head. There were a million reasons. ‘I’m full to bursting with cases,’ she said, ‘and my boss would literally kill me if I took this on.’

Milo put the paper in his back pocket.

‘And I’m a witness. I mean, I was there at the school, I saw the whole thing,’ said Lilly.

‘Then you know she didn’t kill anyone.’

Lilly squeezed her eyes shut. ‘I’m sorry.’

The step is cold and hard, but the light spilling from the shop is comforting. People glare as they enter, stepping around him like he was dog shit, but their hard faces make him feel safe.

Luke spent last night wandering around Oxford Street and Leicester Square. The rain lashed down and the wind got up. Luke got wet and cold, but it was nothing compared to the fear that burned through him.

They say London never sleeps, but on a midweek night with shocking weather, Luke discovered it certainly went home to rest. And after the last revellers dashed their way through the puddles to the night buses at Trafalgar Square, the others came out to play. They emerged from the bins like rats, from behind the cinemas and the side streets in Chinatown. The homeless, the winos, the junkies. This was their time.

Luke had been up to town loads of times. Calf-aching visits to the British Museum with school, birthday jaunts with Tom and Charlie when they’d tried to pick up foreign-exchange girls in the queue for over-eighteen movies. He’d seen down-and-outs, as his mum called them, in their huddles, but he’d passed them by, secure in the knowledge that she would be waiting at Harpenden station. She’d grumble about being a taxi service, but she would never not be there.

He’d made his way into Burger King in Leicester Square and ordered some fries and a Coke, planning to sit and dry off. And he had, until a man sat opposite him, hands buried deep in his leather bomber jacket.

‘Do you want to earn some money?’

‘Sorry?’ said Luke.

The man pulled out a hand, the top coarse with black hair.

‘Money,’ he said, and rubbed his finger and thumb together.

Luke’s stomach lurched as he remembered that Tom had done the exact same thing to the girl.

‘Twenty quid,’ said the man.

Luke was puzzled. Why was this stranger offering to give him money?

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ he said.

The man put his hand over Luke’s. It was gross, like a werewolf’s or something.

‘You give me some relief,’ said the man, ‘and I’ll give you twenty quid.’

Luke was frozen to the spot, he didn’t even dare pull away his hand.

The man smiled. ‘If you’ll suck it, I’ll make it thirty.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Luke didn’t know what else to say. ‘I’m sorry.’

As Luke made his way to the door, the man called after him. ‘Thirty-five if you’ll swallow.’

Luke walked and walked all night, too terrified to stop.

But now he is exhausted. He sits on the step, hugging his rucksack to him, and hopes the time will pass slowly until night falls again.

Maybe he could explain to his mum, tell her what happened. She could call the police and make them understand.

He pulls out his mobile phone and scrolls down to ‘HOME’. The word makes his eyes sting.

He presses select.

‘Hello.’

Luke’s heart leaps in his chest at the sound of his sister’s voice.

‘Hello,’ she repeats.

Everything he wants to say gets stuck in his throat, like a ball of cotton wool, all thick and dry.

‘Luke?’ Jessie’s voice rises. ‘Luke, is that you?’

The televisions in Dixon’s window flash beside him. The constant stream of pictures is hypnotic.

Jessie is shouting now. ‘Say something, Luke.’

He hasn’t slept in forty-eight hours and his head feels weird. The last time he’d stayed up all night had been at Harriet Mason-Day’s party They’d all chipped in for some Es and he’d ended up getting a blow job from her little sister in the laundry room.

That had been fun. This is something different entirely.

‘Luke Walker, you are a selfish little prick. Mum is completely beside herself.’

Luke wanders into the shop, mobile still pressed to his ear.

‘You can’t come in here,’ the assistant shouts from behind the counter.

‘Just tell me where you are.’ Jessie’s still angry but a sob escapes. ‘I’ll get Mum to pick you up.’

A security guard approaches. His face is so black it shines. ‘Come on now, you know you can’t come in here.’ His tone is kind but firm. Like he feels sorry for Luke.

For a second Luke is puzzled, until he sees himself as they do. Dirty, wet and pale with fatigue. They think he’s from the streets.

He leaves the shop without another word, shocked at how quickly he has made the transition from public schoolboy to scumbag.

Jessie is crying into the phone. ‘Luke, please come home.’

He hangs up and drops the phone through a grate into a drain.

When he turns to retrieve his place back on the step a girl has taken his spot. She peers out at him from the hood of an oily parka.

Luke is lost as to what to do next. His mind is fit to explode.

The girl scratches her face with bitten nails. Each one is down to the quick, yet painted a luminous orange.

She gestures to the grate. ‘You could have sold that.’

Luke points to his rucksack. ‘Can I get my bag?’

‘You shouldn’t leave it hanging around.’ Her voice is loud with a strong Liverpudlian accent.

He nods. Of course he shouldn’t have left it. Anyone could have nicked it.

She passes it up to him. ‘Got any ciggies in there?’

Luke shakes his head.

‘Anything to drink?’

‘No.’

‘You’re not much cop then, are you?’ she says.

Luke laughs in spite of himself. Hers is the first half-friendly face he’s seen since he left home. ‘I don’t suppose I am. Much cop, that is.’

The girl pulls herself to her feet and adjusts her oversized coat. It makes her look pitifully small, hidden in its folds. When she’s a few feet away she turns back to him.

‘If you’re hungry I’ll show you where to get some scran.’

Luke is not the least bit peckish, but he races after her all the same.

‘I’m Luke,’ he says.

The girl smiles. ‘Everyone round here calls me Mad Caz.’

‘Do you want counselling?’ asked the Chief Super. Jack raised an eyebrow.

The Chief Super put up his hands. ‘I have to ask.’

‘I’d rather put all this behind me,’ said Jack. ‘Get back to normal.’

The Chief Super nodded. ‘If you change your mind the offer’s there.’

Jack thanked him, but he knew it wasn’t something he’d take up. Yapping endlessly about how he felt wouldn’t change the fact that one of the boys from the school was lying in intensive care and the shooter, Artan, was on a slab.

He’d been down this road before, in Northern Ireland, and he knew the best way to recover was to look forward, not back. You couldn’t change the past, but you could shape your future.

And what was Jack’s future? What did he actually want? If you’d asked him a year ago he wouldn’t have known. A bigger flat? A pay rise? For Liverpool to win the double? Now he had no hesitation. He wanted Lilly and Sam.

He drove to their cottage knowing everything he needed was inside. For too long he had pussyfooted around, flirting, complimenting, letting Lilly get away with murder on his cases. He never imagined a woman as sorted as she was would have time for a loser who had never held down a relationship for longer than six months. Now he had her there was no way he was going to let anything stop him from making this work.

Lilly answered the door. She smiled with her mouth but not her eyes.

‘What’s happened?’ asked Jack.

‘The girl’s been arrested.’

‘The other shooter?’

He saw her shoulders tense. ‘She didn’t shoot anyone.’

‘And your man went all the way to court to tell you that?’

‘Milo asked me to help her,’ she said.

He didn’t like the way she said his name, as if there were magic in it.

‘And what does this Milo expect you to do?’

She turned away and walked towards the kitchen. ‘He wants me to represent her.’

Oh, no. She wouldn’t—would she? She was bloody pig-headed, but even she would see this was madness.

‘You can’t do it,’ he said.

‘I know.’

‘You were there, Sam was there.’

‘I know.’

‘Mary Mother of God, I was the one who shot her boyfriend.’

‘I know.’ Lilly threw up her arms. ‘I bloody well know all that.’

‘So you told him no?’

‘I told him no.’ She didn’t meet his eyes.

Alexia Dee stretched out a smooth leg and admired her shoes. Purple suede with a high square heel. A small hole at the toe allowing a flash of nail of the same colour. Pure sex.

‘Busy, are we, Posh?’

Alexia pursed her lips. Her boss was in a foul temper, stalking around the office like a lion waiting for a kill, leaving his usual trail of stale smoke and sweat.

Steve Berry hated quiet days, unable to settle, pouncing on the phone like an addict on his drugs. Well, everyone hated the quiet days, didn’t they? Alexia hadn’t studied for three years in the backwoods of Bristol to spend her time drinking coffee, but any decent journalist knew that it’s part of the job. You sit. You wait.

The phone rang. Alexia yawned.

‘You gonna get that?’ said Steve.

Alexia sighed. No doubt another tip-off about the Harvest Festival at Mary of the Sacred Heart. Only the fourth that day.

‘Alexia Dee,’ she said.

‘Go on a website called The Spear of Truth,’ said the voice.

‘Can I take your name, sir?’ she answered.

‘Just do it.’

The line went dead.

‘Charmed, I’m sure,’ said Alexia.

Steve leaned over her, his breath raspy. ‘Well?’

‘Crank call,’ she said.

He moved even closer, grimacing, and she could smell the onions he’d eaten earlier on his mid-morning kebab.

‘Jesus,’ she muttered, and went into her search engine. The Spear of Truth.

It was a white-power site, all black and white pictures of 9/11 and ugly close-ups of Abu Hamza. She scrolled past the edited highlights of ‘The Nuremberg Rally’ until she reached the daily discussions forum. Then she saw it. A post from someone calling themselves Snow White.

‘Bloody hell.’

‘What?’ shouted Steve.

‘If this is true,’ said Alexia, ‘we’ve just got a fantastic story.’