Читать книгу A Place of Safety - Helen Black, Black Helen Cecelia - Страница 13

Luke is a clever boy. Everybody says so. Ten straight A’s at GCSE. His reports always bring a smile to his mother’s face:

Walker is a model student with a firm grasp of Latin grammar. A bright pupil who fully comprehends the importance of Tudor history.

Well, I’m failing bloody miserably on the streets, he thinks.

‘A bit slow on the uptake,’ Caz always teases.

Thank God for Caz. She sussed straight away that he didn’t know his arse from his elbow and has taken him under her wing. Why she did that is still not clear to him. Tom always says that nothing in this life is for free, that everyone is on the take, but Luke can’t for the life of him see why Caz is being so kind to a basket case like him.

‘I like a challenge,’ she says.

Whatever her reasons, he’s bloody grateful.

Hot meal—she knows where to get it. Dry place to sleep—she’ll put you right. And if you need some gear she’ll do a deal with Sonic Dave, who everyone says is a bit of a nutter but likes Caz because she reminds him of his baby sister.

This morning, when he woke up in a squat on Brixton High Road and she was gone, her sleeping bag rolled into a fat sausage, Luke was overcome with panic, gut-wrenching, sickening panic. He didn’t dare move, afraid to go anywhere without her, afraid that if she came back for her bag he’d miss her. He sat in that spot for two hours, staring wildly around him.

It had been dark when Caz had blagged them a space in the squat last night, but now he can see as well as smell the damp patches spreading across the walls and the black sack of rubbish in the corner. There’s someone else in the room, buried deep under a green blanket. Luke can’t see who it is but he can hear the coughing.

He needs a pee. It started as a vague pressure in his bladder but it’s built to a searing pain. But he’s not moving, he’d rather piss himself in his bag.

The door opens and Luke’s heart leaps at the sight of a female figure silhouetted in the doorway. ‘Caz?’

She shakes her head and Luke can see now that she’s at least ten years older. Luke thinks he might cry, and a weird strangled sound comes out as he tries to swallow down his tears.

‘You okay?’ says the woman, the accent thickly Eastern Bloc.

‘I just wondered if you know where Caz went?’

The woman shakes her head, then almost as an afterthought shouts behind her in a language Luke doesn’t understand. A voice shouts back.

‘Gone for make money,’ the woman translates.

‘Where?’ Luke asks.

The woman shrugs. ‘Streatham, maybe.’

Luke doesn’t know where that is but maybe he can catch a bus. He’s got a map in his rucksack. Maybe he should make his way over there, see if he can spot her. Then again maybe he should stay here.

The figure under the blanket pokes out his head and vomits onto the floor. A pool of brown viscous liquid meanders towards Luke. The decision has been made for him.

The tube rattles and shakes as it passes through the belly of the capital. Luke has grown used to the way people avoid him. To be honest he would do the same, given that he hasn’t had a bath in three days.

He can see now why tramps hunch in on themselves. It’s the shame of being dirty, of being different. They don’t want to be noticed.

He gets off at Balham and blinks into the daylight. Where should he start to look for Caz? The woman at the squat had said she’d gone to get some money. Most likely she meant begging.

He looks around the entrance of the station and catches sight of a man sat on a blanket, a teardrop tattooed under one eye.

‘Spare some change.’

Luke shakes his head. ‘Do you know Mad Caz?’

‘Cocky Scouser?’

Luke laughs. ‘That’s right. Have you seen her?’

The man eyes Luke’s dirty trainers and rucksack. Caz has tried to make Luke understand the rules of the street. Never take someone else’s spot, never move someone else’s stash, and never give anyone up.

‘If Caz wants you to find her, you will,’ says the man.

Luke’s desperate, he doesn’t know what he’ll do without her.

Perhaps it shows in his face, because the man’s harsh eyes slacken—or perhaps that’s just what Luke wants to think.

‘I haven’t seen you around before.’

Luke shakes his head in answer.

‘Caz showing you the ropes, is she?’ the man says to himself. ‘I’ll tell you what. You get a couple of tins from the Twenty-Four-Seven and you can wait with me. If she comes back this way you’ll find her.’

Luke doesn’t need to be asked twice.

‘Tennent’s Super,’ the man calls after him. ‘And make sure they’re fucking cold.’

Luke scuttles across the road into the shop and heads for the freezer. He tugs at a can of Tennent’s but it is held tight in plastic to another three. Maybe you can only buy them in packs of four. He left home with what his dad had given him for a new computer game and there isn’t much left. Mum always goes potty, saying Dad should spend more time with them and less with his fancy woman, then he wouldn’t feel the need to bribe them.

He did the maths in his head. The beer would leave him with six quid. Not much, not even enough for a McDonald’s for him and Caz. Maybe he should leave it. Then again, the bloke at the tube would be pretty pissed off if he came back empty-handed. Maybe he could say they wouldn’t serve him. Luke watched a girl who looked about ten years old getting twenty Bensons and knew that would never fly.

‘Do you want those?’

Luke realised the man behind the counter was speaking to him, although he was still having a conversation with someone else on the phone.

He took the money without touching Luke’s hand.

The face in the mirror told the sorry story. Lines etched around the eyes, skin as colourless as the sky. Lilly hadn’t been to bed the night before.

She picked up the phone and dialled. ‘Is Sam there?’

‘Nice to speak to you too,’ said her ex-husband.

It wasn’t so long ago that all their conversations went like this, each sentence tight with accusation.

‘Sorry, David, bad night.’

His voice softened. ‘I’m not surprised. I bet you can’t stop thinking about what happened up at the school.’

Lilly’s finger grazed Anna’s file. ‘Something like that.’

A silence stretched between them. David had never been comfortable with sadness or fear. In fact he was pretty useless with emotion full stop. When Lilly could no longer tolerate his affair with Cara and had kicked him out his relief had been palpable. He could have refused, promised to give up his mistress, but no, he simply couldn’t bear a scene—and so had all but run away.

‘I’ll fetch Sam,’ he said at last.

* * *

Lilly bought a large latte from the coffee shop on the High Street. She could see her mother’s pursed lips, the click of her tongue at the extravagance of spending £2.10 on a drink when there was a perfectly good kettle in the kitchen.

‘Needs must,’ she whispered into the ether.

A quick chat with Sam had cheered her a little, and now she hoped to sneak into her office, hide under her desk and let the frothy milk do the rest.

As soon as she opened the door she knew her plan was doomed. Rupes and Sheila were both in the reception area, poring over the post.

Lilly’s smile was weak. ‘Hi.’

Rupes’s face was impassive. If she knew about Lilly’s trip to the police station she would be furious.

‘Everything okay?’ asked Lilly.

Rupes said nothing. Oh, this silent treatment was worse than a bollocking.

‘You’d better show her,’ said Sheila, and Lilly noticed how pale she looked. Maybe this wasn’t about Anna.

Rupes handed Lilly a copy of the Three Counties Observer.

SCHOOLBOY MURDERED IN THE HEART OF ENGLAND

The TCO can exclusively reveal that Charles Stanton, 16, was shot in cold blood at his Hertfordshire school by a crazed gunman thought to be seeking asylum.

On and on the story went, with a grainy but still grisly photograph of the spot where Charles had been killed.

It was bad, truly awful, but it was the final paragraph that made Lilly’s heart sink.

The police, who have made no comment until this point, have confirmed that a teenage girl has been arrested and charged and will be brought to court at the earliest opportunity.

‘You should never have gone sneaking off to help that girl,’ said Sheila.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Lilly.

‘You had no business taking that case,’ said Sheila. ‘We don’t even do asylum stuff.’

Lilly rounded on her secretary. ‘For one thing, this is a criminal matter, not “asylum stuff”, as you so nicely put it, and for another I have not taken on Anna’s case.’

‘So you went down the nick for a laugh, did you?’ said Sheila. ‘Didn’t think about us, did you? More interested in some kid who ain’t even from here.’

Lilly’s face burned. Where was Sheila getting her information?

‘She has a name and it’s Anna,’ she said. ‘She came here to escape things you and I could never dream of.’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ said Sheila. ‘And my granddad didn’t get shot at in Normandy so we could give a home to everybody with a sob story.’

‘What’s the point?’ said Lilly, and turned to leave. ‘I’m not being told what to do by a bloody secretary.’

As Sheila opened her mouth for another tirade, Rupes pulled Lilly out of the room.

‘It doesn’t mention the firm,’ said Lilly.

Rupinder held out a flyer. ‘This was pushed through the letterbox this morning.’

We urge the people of Britain to stand up for what they know is right. Stop our precious resources dwindling away while our own old aged pensioners do without. Refuse to support non-English shops and businesses.

‘Bin it,’ said Lilly.

‘The other partners are worried that some clients might go elsewhere,’ said Rupes.

Lilly shook her head. ‘We can’t bow to this sort of pressure.’

‘I agree,’ said Rupinder, ‘but I’m not going to pretend that it isn’t unnerving.’

Lilly hugged her boss. She smelled of cocoa butter. ‘It’s just racist crap.’

‘I know that, but if you hadn’t noticed, Lilly, I’m not exactly white.’

Both women laughed until Lilly’s mobile rang. It was Milo.

‘Thank God I’ve got you. I don’t know what to do,’ he said.

‘What on earth’s the matter?’ asked Lilly.

He was breathing hard into his phone. It crackled into Lilly’s ear. ‘I’m at the court with Anna. There are lots of people here, shouting and screaming.’

‘How’s Anna? Is she okay?’

‘She’s terrified. She won’t speak to anyone but you,’ he said.

‘Hang on.’ Lilly looked at Rupes. ‘I’ll be there as soon as I can.’

Lilly didn’t break eye contact with her boss and handed her Anna’s file.

‘Read this—and if you still don’t want me to take on this case you can sack me.’

The Tennent’s is thick and gloopy and it coats Luke’s tongue. It doesn’t taste like anything he’s drunk before. He takes small sips and the can is still half full.

Tony pulls the ring on his second. He makes room for Luke on his filthy blanket and Luke gladly sits down. He ignores the brown stains, which may or may not be shit, just glad for the chance to be with another human being.

As the booze works into his system, Tony becomes chatty. He tells Luke he’s from Wales but hasn’t been back since he left the army.

‘Why not?’ asks Luke.

‘Drugs, drink, prison,’ says Tony. ‘A full hand.’

Luke doesn’t know how to respond. People on the streets talk openly about stuff like that, stuff that would make his mum have a fit. And Luke never knows what to say. He could just join in, that’s what Tom would do, but these people would suss he was faking in a heartbeat. Like the time Caz asked if he needed any gear and he’d nodded, thinking she meant grass. When she poled up with a bag of heroin he’d tried to hide his shock and simply pocketed it, but Caz had laughed and called him ‘a silly get’.

‘They say I have a problem with my temper,’ says Tony.

‘Right,’ says Luke.

Tony twists his mouth into a smile. His front teeth are missing. ‘They say I’m unpredictable.’

‘Better than being boring, I suppose.’

Tony’s eyes close into two black slits. ‘Are you taking the piss?’

‘No,’ says Luke, and searches for safer ground. ‘Where did you serve?’ he asks.

Tony takes a long swallow and bares his gums with an audible sigh.

‘Bosnia, Macedonia,’ he says. ‘Would have been shipped out to the desert but they said my head was mashed.’ He drains the last dregs and lets out a belch. ‘Post Traumatic Stress they called it. Offered me counselling, like, but it didn’t work. Once you seen them things you can’t un-see them, can you?’ He taps the side of his head. ‘No matter how much bloody talking you do, it’s all still in here.’

He closes his eyes and Luke’s not sure whether he’s wrestling with his demons or if he’s just nodded off.

‘Made yourself at home, I see.’

It’s Caz, with her big toothy grin and grubby parka. Luke’s heart swells.

She points to the remaining cans. ‘Give us one, will you?’

Luke hands her one and she snuggles between him and Tony.

‘How’s business?’ says Tony, his eyes still shut.

‘Slow,’ says Caz. ‘But I got enough for today.’ She turns to Luke. ‘I need a shower after that lot.’

‘Where?’ he asks.

‘There’s a few places.’ She nudges him with her elbow. ‘You weren’t planning on smelling like that forever, were you?’

He doesn’t deny how badly he needs a wash. Even the foul stench of Tony’s breath doesn’t mask Luke’s own body odour.

She pecks Tony on the cheek and scrambles to her feet. ‘Thanks for looking out for him.’

Tony nods gently. ‘Not a problem.’ His eyes remain shut.

Caz presses the buzzer on a door in Peckham. It looks like it might be a village hall or something. Not that Peckham’s a village. Luke’s heard of it—well, everyone has after that poor little kid got stabbed on some stairs—but it’s different to anywhere he’s ever been in his life and he’s been abroad loads of times.

The high street is lined with stalls selling fruit and vegetables. Gargantuan black women haggle over things that look like giant spring onions and bunches of leaves tied with string. Rude boys hang around, tracks cut into their hair and eyebrows, their accents dense. Sometimes Tom would put on a voice that he thinks sounds Jamaican. He says ‘ting’ instead of ‘thing’ and calls everyone in the dorm ‘bredren’. The other boarders would laugh, but Luke thinks it makes him look like a twat.

He becomes transfixed outside a Caribbean takeaway, the smell of patties rooting him to the spot.

‘On your way,’ shouts the cook from behind the counter. They’re not welcome.

Caz is impatient and presses the buzzer a second time. Luke can’t believe they’ll get a shower in here.

‘Don’t look like that, soft lad,’ says Caz. ‘Have I let you down yet?’

A woman opens the door, a fag between her lips. ‘The lovely Caroline.’

Caz grins. ‘All right, Jean.’

‘And who’ve you got with you this time?’ asks Jean, smoke causing her to squint.

‘This is my mate, Luke,’ she says. ‘He’s new.’

Jean nods and lets them pass.

The washing machine is hypnotic. Luke watches his clothes spin round and round. For the first time since he ran away he feels calm. It’s not that he’s forgotten about Anna and Tom and Charlie and all that stuff. It’s more like it’s pushed to the back of his mind. He’s had a shower and has seized the opportunity to wash his jeans and hoodie. He offered to stick Caz’s parka in but she declined.

‘It’s only the stains holding it together.’

‘So, Luke,’ says Jean, an unlit cigarette between her lips. ‘Got everything you need?’

‘Yes, thank you,’ he says.

Jean pats her pockets until she finds a lighter and gives it a shake. ‘Do you want something to eat while you’re waiting? Make yourself a sandwich if you fancy it.’

He’s not sure if he should. He’s already had a shower and used the washer. His mum always says you shouldn’t take advantage. But the woman seems to expect it. Earlier, when two boys asked if they could take some milk with them, she just nodded and gave them one of the cartons out of the fridge. As for Caz, she’s made herself right at home. Half a bottle of Radox in her bath, then she’d crashed out on one of the sofas in the common room. She’s still in there, fast asleep.

‘There’s plenty of ham,’ Jean says. ‘Or cheese if you prefer it.’

‘Thank you,’ Luke repeats, and Jean laughs.

‘Someone taught you good manners,’ she says.

Luke blushes. He’s not sure whether she’s taking the piss. ‘My mum says they maketh the man. Manners, that is.’

Jean just smiles and nods in the direction of the bread bin. Luke takes two slices and butters them. The bread’s springy like it was bought fresh that morning.

‘When d’you last see your mum?’ asks Jean.

Luke grates some cheese. Red Leicester, his favourite.

‘A few days ago,’ he says.

‘So you’re still in touch?’

Luke gives her a puzzled frown, then realises Jean has no idea how long he’s been on the streets.

‘Don’t worry, love, we don’t have nothing to do with your parents unless you want us to. Nor the social or the police for that matter.’

Luke takes a bite but it’s hard to chew. His mouth has gone dry at the mention of the police and all his fears come rushing back. What if the police have already arrested Tom and Charlie? And what if they’re looking for Luke right this minute?

‘What’s your business stays your business. We’re just here to help if we can,’ she says.

Luke forces the lump of bread down his throat. ‘I don’t think anyone can help.’

Jean stubs out her cigarette. ‘You’d be surprised.’

Kerry Thomson was fat. Properly fat. Not half-a-stone, jeans-a-bit-too-tight fat, but can’t-reach-your-feet-to-pick-up-your-sandwich fat. Rolls of flesh began at her neck and fell down her body in waves. Her head seemed too small for the monstrous body as if it belonged to someone else completely. And that was how Kerry liked to think of it, a pleasant—some said pretty—face that ought to have attached itself to a smaller person. Not necessarily a thin person, but not the hulk of blubber that was Kerry Thomson. She shunned full-length mirrors, preferring a pocket compact to isolate the one part of her body that she didn’t hate. When had she started doing that? In her twenties when she last wore official sizes? In her thirties, when her periods dried up?

To be honest, she’d always been overweight. A podgy toddler wobbling around in her terry nappies making her brothers laugh, her sticky fingers outstretched for a custard cream. At school she didn’t mind her ‘puppy fat’, at least not much, and in her mid teens she wore it quite well. While the other girls were all straight lines and right angles, Kerry had tipped into womanhood, breasts, hips and arse. It had been a window of opportunity and she’d used it to full advantage. Kerry had had more sex between the ages of fourteen and sixteen than she’d had in the rest of her life put together.

Some of her so-called mates had called her a slag; others more kindly pointed out that Kerry was having a rough patch, what with her mum dying. Either way Kerry had enjoyed those wet fumblings in the back of Ford Cortinas.

She looked at the clock and sighed. She’d zipped her way through six burglaries, four common assaults, two possessions and a pile of traffic including a drunk in charge of a bike. Only one case left, but the solicitor for the defence hadn’t turned up yet. If they didn’t get here soon the court would have to sit through the lunch break.

She felt in her pocket for a sweet.

A crowd had congregated outside the Magistrates’ Court. The usual gaggle of smokers that gathered whatever the weather had been pushed to one side by a group of twenty or so dark-skinned men in checked shirts and women in headscarves. Lilly assumed they were Albanian. A hundred feet away a smaller group of white men shouted. One had a megaphone. Their suits were no disguise. WBA. White British Alliance. The swastika tattoos had gone but the sentiment remained.

Sandwiched between were the police, and watching with amusement were the press. Lots of them. Thank you Three Counties Observer. Lilly had no intention of shuffling past that little lot, and headed for the back entrance.

Inside the court, Milo was slumped in a chair. When he saw Lilly his face lit up. ‘Thank you for coming.’

The noise of the megaphone filtered into the building.

Milo shook his head. ‘Some of the Hounds Place residents contacted their friends. I told them not to come, that it would do no good.’

‘It won’t,’ said Lilly.

‘But they’re so angry,’ he said. ‘Anna was raped and yet she ends up in jail.’

Lilly put her hand over his. ‘So let’s try to get her out.’

Lilly slipped into the advocates’ room and found Kerry Thomson building a glittering pyramid out of Quality Street wrappers. As always, Lilly noticed the hair sprouting from the doughy chin and wondered if Kerry knew she had polycystic ovaries.

‘Hello there,’ said Lilly.

Kerry scrunched the papers into her fist, a guilty secret.

‘I’m here for Anna Duraku,’ said Lilly. ‘Conspiracy to murder.’

Kerry nodded to the lone file awaiting its fifteen minutes of fame.

‘It’s a load of old rubbish,’ said Lilly. She knew that if it had been anyone else she would have ripped into them, but Kerry always seemed so vulnerable. Shouting at her would feel like bullying someone with Down’s syndrome.

‘Director of Public Prosecutions says it’s good to go,’ Kerry answered.

‘The fact that she looked at it in person means there are people in the mothership with doubts,’ said Lilly.

Kerry pressed both palms on the table and heaved herself to her feet. ‘Let’s get it into court and see what the magistrate says.’

As they made their way to court number three, Lilly didn’t know which was louder—the rumbling from outside or that emitting from Kerry Thomson’s stomach.

She could smell them before she turned the corner. Even if they hadn’t been shouting she would have known they were there. Something about the food they ate and the clothes they wore gave off an odour. Not exactly unpleasant, just distinctly different.

No matter how many times the liberals and leftists insisted that these people were the same as us, Snow White knew it was not true.

Grandpa had travelled from Cairo to Soweto and back again, and he had declared the other races ‘simply not cricket’. Today, watching this dark-haired horde screaming at the court house, she knew he was right.

‘Terrible, ain’t it?’ said woman with a double buggy.

‘Yes indeed,’ Snow White answered.

‘I thought there was a law against it,’ the woman said, feeding her twins a packet of Cheesy Wotsits.

Snow White watched the toddlers turn their mouths and chins orange as they sucked the additives from their snacks.

‘Sadly not.’

‘It’s the same on match day,’ said the woman. ‘The skinheads hijack the whole thing with their shouting.’

Snow White turned to defend the reasonable turnout of brothers that had come to make their feelings heard, but the woman had already pushed on to the bus stop.

At least these comrades had the courage to stand up for what they believed in, however unsophisticated they might be in making their point. She had had some misgivings about involving them but, seeing them now, standing shoulder-to-shoulder against the enemy, the press documenting their every move, she knew she had done well. She wished she could join them but knew it wasn’t possible. She used to resent having to keep her views secret, but now she realised it gave her an advantage. She could infiltrate, gather information and destroy the enemy from within.

The chanting reached a crescendo and a can was hurled at the foreigners.

The magistrate was the intelligent and intuitive Mrs Lucinda Holmes. Many wondered why she had spent so many years in the Youth Court; certainly she could have sought out promotion. Lilly had always assumed that, like her, she just loved kids.

‘Before we begin,’ Mrs Holmes fixed the advocates with a steely look, ‘let’s remind ourselves that Tirana is a minor and this is not an episode of LA Law.’

‘Yes, Madam,’ said Lilly.

‘Now,’ said Mrs Holmes. ‘Do we need an interpreter?’

‘No,’ Anna shouted.

Mrs Holmes smiled at her, civilly but not warmly. ‘We find things work better if you address the court through your solicitor.’

‘Sorry,’ Anna muttered.

‘She neither needs nor wants one,’ said Lilly.

Mrs Holmes made a note with a silver fountain pen. ‘Then let’s proceed.’

‘This is a case of conspiracy to murder,’ said Kerry. ‘The prosecution say that the defendant went with Artan Shala to Manor Park Preparatory School, each with a firearm. The intention of both parties was to kill pupils at that school. They were unfortunately successful in their plan, fatally shooting Charles Stanton before Ms Duraku was disarmed and Shala shot dead by a police officer at the scene.’

‘I gave the policeman the gun before Artan shot the boy,’ said Anna.

Mrs Holmes frowned at Lilly. ‘Miss Valentine, you must keep your client in check. This is not a free-for-all.’

‘I’m sorry, Madam, but what my client says is true. She voluntarily handed her weapon to Officer McNally some time before Artan was killed. There is no question that he acted alone.’

Mrs Holmes nodded. ‘That is for another tribunal to consider. Today I simply intend to transfer this case to the Crown Court. Nothing more.’

‘What about an application for bail, Madam?’ said Lilly.

Mrs Holmes replaced the top on her pen before laying it gently but deliberately on the pad before her. ‘Do you intend to make one, Miss Valentine?’

Lilly thrust up her chin. ‘Indeed I do.’

The magistrate opened her arms.

‘I realise, Madam, that this is a serious matter and wouldn’t normally attract bail, but this case is unusual in any number of ways,’ said Lilly.

‘Go on,’ said Mrs Holmes.

‘You may deny bail, Madam, if you believe my client is likely to re-offend.’

‘Indeed I may,’ said Mrs Holmes.

‘Which is why I know you’ll have worked out that re-offending in this case is impossible,’ said Lilly ‘Anna is charged with a conspiracy with someone who is now dead. They could hardly plot anything else together, Madam.’

Mrs Holmes bit her lip. ‘And what about the possibility that Anna might abscond?’

Lilly gave her best theatrical shrug. ‘Where would she go? She has no living family and few friends. The Hounds Place hostel is her only lifeline.’

Mrs Holmes breathed evenly, clearly thinking things through.

‘Who would supervise her at the hostel?’

‘There are social workers on duty, Madam, and Milo Hassan visits every day’

Mrs Holmes shook her head. ‘There’s insufficient continuity for my liking. One person needs to be in charge.’

Lilly looked over at Anna. Every molecule of her being looked terrified, and Lilly was consumed with guilt. If she had stepped in to prevent Artan taking the law into his own hands, Anna wouldn’t be here now.

‘She can stay with me,’ said Lilly.

Everyone stared.

Lilly gulped. She’d surprised herself as much as anyone else.

‘Stay with you?’ Mrs Holmes repeated.

‘Yes,’ said Lilly. ‘I will undertake to the court to supervise her in my home.’

‘That’s a huge commitment, Miss Valentine.’

Lilly gulped. It was huge. Bloody huge. Lilly pushed the implications to the back of her mind and nodded.

As they left court in Lilly’s car, Milo rubbed Anna’s shoulders. ‘It’s over.’

Lilly didn’t speak but an old quote came into her head.

‘This isn’t the end. It’s not even the beginning of the end.’

‘Tell me this is a joke,’ said Jack.

‘Am I laughing?’ said Lilly. She stared out at the field beyond her kitchen window. The earth was brown and hard. The harvest had been and gone and nothing would grow until spring.

‘You can’t have her living here,’ he said.

‘The court says I can.’

He groaned. ‘It’s madness.’

And of course it was. Sheer madness. Sam would hit the roof; David would apply to have her sectioned; and Rupes…Lilly shuddered at the very thought.

‘I can’t let them send her to prison.’

‘But we’re both involved in this case,’ he said. ‘Me in particular.’

Lilly felt a stab of guilt as to how much harder this would make things for Jack.

‘She’s just a kid,’ she said.

He shook her gently by the shoulders. ‘It’s not your responsibility.’

‘Then whose is it, Jack? ’Cos so far the “authorities”’, she made speech marks in the air, ‘have done a pretty piss-poor job of looking after her.’ She rubbed his lapel. ‘I owe her.’

‘For what?’

‘For not doing something before she got dragged into this unholy mess.’

At that moment Milo waltzed in and dumped a binbag of clothes on the floor. ‘I’ll bring the rest of her things later.’

Jack, eyes wide, watched him leave the room. ‘Is that what’s-his-name?’

‘Milo,’ she said.

‘He seems at home.’

Lilly sniffed. ‘I’ve barely spoken to him.’

Milo stuck his head back into the room. ‘Dishwasher still working okay?’

Jack looked from Lilly to Milo and back again. Lilly opened her mouth to explain.

‘Don’t tell me you’ve finally got that dishwasher to work?’

It was David, carrying Sam on his back. He looked from Lilly to Jack to Milo and back again.

‘Welcome to Piccadilly bloody Circus,’ said Jack, and pushed his way out.

Lilly poured two glasses of Sauvignon Blanc and handed one to David.

‘You look knackered,’ said Lilly.

‘Fleur’s got colic.’

‘Isn’t she too old for that?’

David took a sip. ‘I think she just likes crying.’

‘She’s a baby, that’s her job,’ said Lilly.

‘I don’t remember Sam being like that.’

Lilly laughed. Of course he bloody was. You just didn’t notice ‘cos I did all the dirty work.’

David opened his mouth to argue but stopped. ‘You were always much better at sorting things out than me. You never seemed to mind the noise and the mess.’

‘I thrive on a challenge.’

‘I do wonder if you don’t just love chaos,’ he said.

‘Don’t be stupid.’

‘Look at the facts, Lil: things were going well with you and Jack, so what do you do? Move a Bosnian refugee into the house.’

‘Kosovan. And, anyway, it won’t be for long. Once I can show the court she’s not going to try to leg it I’ll get her moved back to the hostel.’

‘Sam’s not a happy bunny,’ said David.

Lilly forced a smile. ‘He’ll be fine.’

‘He loves having you to himself,’ said David. ‘He hated sharing you with all those kids in care.’

‘He shares you with Cara and Fleur.’

David finished his wine and grabbed his coat. ‘I don’t want to argue, Lil, I’m just pointing out the obvious.’

Lilly closed the door behind him and headed upstairs. ‘Everything is going to be fine,’ she said to herself. But who was she trying to convince?

In court, when the entire system—no, the world—seemed to be against Anna, she had jumped into the fray, thinking only of how she could help, how she could make amends. Now, as she smoothed her son’s duvet over the slow rise and fall of his shoulders, drinking in his warmth, she questioned the sense of her actions. Yes, the girl had been through hell, but did Lilly really need to bring her into her home? Sam’s home?

As she moved down the hall she heard the sharp plink of a dripping tap and turned back to the bathroom. The tap needed a new washer, but judicious pressure normally did the trick. As she pulled it to the left she noticed a black tidemark around the basin. Not the usual ring of dirt but a slick line, almost purple. Had Sam been washing paintbrushes upstairs again? She’d have to have a word with him in the morning. Artistic license was one thing, but he brushed his teeth in here.

Then she saw the plastic tube in the bin. Hidden under a wodge of tissue, only the end peeped out. Lilly would have missed it but for the airbrushed picture of some impossibly glossy-locked model.

It was hair dye.

Since even Sam would struggle to find a use for a tube of dye, it must be Anna’s. But why would a sixteen-year-old girl facing a murder charge worry about that? And why would she try to hide it?

She was still contemplating the tube when Anna came in. They both blushed.

‘I once went green,’ joked Lilly. ‘Now that was a mistake.’

Anna didn’t smile. ‘This is my natural colour,’ she said. ‘Before I go grey.’

‘Oh, you poor, poor girl,’ said Lilly, and enveloped her client in her arms. Anna stiffened, but Lilly didn’t let go.

Sometimes doing the right thing wasn’t convenient, but that didn’t stop it being right.

* * *

The landlord called time and Jack waved for another pint.

He’d overreacted again, stomping out of Lilly’s like a Hollywood diva. He’d made himself look foolish in front of David and your man Milo, yet he hadn’t been able to help himself.

He’d wanted to explain to Lilly that the shooting had crystallised his thoughts, made him realise that she and Sam were all he wanted. It had been so important to him to make her understand that. Instead he’d been faced with the usual maelstrom of Valentine mayhem. In what alternative universe did Lilly think it was sensible to have her client in the house? Surely she could see that it would ruin everything between them? Maybe she just didn’t care enough about him to give his feelings a second thought. Maybe this whole relationship was purely one-sided?

He sighed and sipped his lager. He knew full well that that was not how Lilly saw it. She saw no choice between Jack and Anna—she simply saw a girl who needed help.

He drained his glass and knew he’d regret this last drink in the morning—that and not buying a loaf for breakfast.

The walls of the bridge smell of pee. It’s so strong Luke feels like he can taste it at the back of his throat. Caz pushes a pallet against the wall and throws an old sheet over the top.

‘Carry on camping,’ she grins, but Luke can’t even smile.

Ever since he left the Peckham Project he’s been thinking about the police and what they’ll do if they catch him. Will the people in prison be like Teardrop Tony? Will they force him to have sex in the showers like people say and will he be as frightened as the girl in the park?

He desperately wants to tell Caz, to ask her what he should do, but even though she’s the nearest thing he’s got to a friend here, so far from his home, he’s only known her a few days.

She crawls into the lean-to and pulls her sleeping bag over her legs. Luke follows her in. A shiver runs down his back and he stuffs his hands in his pockets.

‘Cold?’ asks Caz.

He nods.

‘Wait ’til January’

But it’s not the weather that is making his bones ache.

‘Why are you here, Caz?’ he asks.

‘Because it’s bleeding well pouring out there, and that Russian bitch won’t let us back in the squat.’

‘I mean why are you here, living like this?’ he says. ‘Why aren’t you at home?’

She pulls an old tobacco tin from her pocket and unwraps her gear. A square of tin foil, a disposable lighter, a steel tube. And a bag of heroin. She says she’s not addicted, that she just does it to pass the time, but Luke’s seen the plastic sheen of her face in the morning.

‘Do you really want to know?’ she says.

He nods.

Caz sighs and sprinkles a couple of pinches of powder onto the foil.

‘My stepdad was proper handy with his fists,’ she says. ‘Gave my ma some right beatings.’

She flicks the lighter and Luke sees the flint ignite.

‘She always said he was as good as gold until he had a drink inside him.’

She puts the flame to the underside of the foil and makes a circular movement. ‘Trouble was, most days he had a drink inside him.’

‘Couldn’t she leave him?’ asks Luke.

Caz looks up from her fix and a wry smile plays on her lips. ‘And go where, soft lad?’

He shrugs, an admission that he knows nothing of that sort of life.

She goes back to the foil. The powder is beginning to cook, bubbles popping.

‘When she died he started on me.’

She puts the tube in her mouth and inhales the smoke.

‘I stayed for a bit, for my little sisters, but when they got taken into care I legged it.’

‘I’m sorry, Caz,’ says Luke.

Her mouth has gone slack and her voice when it comes is a rasp. ‘What about you? What brings you to the Costa del Shit Hole?’

He looks down at his feet and pulls the lace of his trainer. ‘I got involved in something bad. Somebody—a girl, I mean—got something terrible done to her.’

‘Raped?’ asks Caz.

Luke nods, shame burning hot on his cheeks.

‘Three of us took her into a park,’ he says. ‘She was terrified.’

‘That’s rough,’ says Caz.

‘I didn’t help her,’ he says. ‘I did absolutely nothing to help her.’

Caz puts the flame under the foil again and chases the smoke around the edges.

‘Do you hate me?’ he asks.

‘We all do stuff we’re not proud of,’ she says.

His eyes sting. ‘But what I did is so disgusting.’

‘Not for me to judge.’

He looks up at her, relieved by her words—but terrified her eyes will betray them as lies. He’s glad when he sees her chin has gouched onto her chest.