A Place Of Safety (10 page)

‘But isn’t there safety in numbers?’ asked Luke.

‘Oh, yeah, soft lad, safe as houses with every psycho in London sleeping two feet away from us.’

But sometimes she makes an exception and goes over there when she’s got something to sell.

A couple of fires are burning in old braziers but the place is still as gloomy as hell. Literally. It smells of piss and glue and the cold, catch-in-the-throat stench of crack.

Four boys suck on their pipes, eyes wide, shoulders stiff. They don’t seem to have noticed the old man lying feet away in a pool of cheap cider. A woman sits on a roll of carpet, an aerosol tucked into her sleeve, its nozzle peeping out like a friendly mouse. She mumbles to herself, tears streaming down her face. Not long ago Luke would have been horrified by the concrete slap of her emotion. He would have looked the other way and passed quickly by. Tonight he just marches up to the poor woman.

‘I’m looking for Caz,’ says Luke. ‘A girl from Liverpool.’

‘The woman looks up at him, her eyes red and hot. All the girls is up that end.’

He nods his thanks and peers down into the shadows.

Two figures are silhouetted in the firelight by the door to the stairs. One is clearly a man, with tall, broad shoulders. The other is slight. Could it be her?

‘Caz?’ he calls.

There’s no reply but it is her. He can see the dirty parka hanging off her shoulders.

‘Caz!’

If she hears him she still doesn’t answer. She’s deep in conversation with the man. He is trying to pull her by the arm but she is shrugging him off. What’s going on? Luke can’t make out the words but they are definitely arguing.

As the voices become more heated the man manages to pull Caz into the shadows, out of sight.

‘Stop,’ Luke shouts, and starts to run. He splashes through the pools of water and knocks over a plastic crate acting as a table. Candles fly into the air and land with a hiss in a puddle.

A head peeps out of an overcoat, completely swathed in a scarf like a dirty blue bandage. ‘Watch what you’re doing.’

‘Sorry,’ Luke grabs the sodden candles and plonks them back on the crate. ‘I think my friend’s in trouble.’

‘We’re all in fucking trouble here, mate,’ says the man.

Luke sets off again, swerving in and out of groups of addicts. At last he reaches the door but there is no sign of Caz.

His heart pounds in his chest. What if the man were trying to rob her? Caz would be just the sort of person to fight back. Luke’s mum always says, ‘If a mugger attacks you, give him what he wants. Nothing’s worth getting killed for.’

Caz has hardly anything worth taking, but what is hers she will defend with her last drop of blood.

He hears a strange wheezing sound coming from the stairs. He can see them both now. The man is behind Caz, pushing her into the wall. Is he strangling her? Please God, she’s still alive.

Luke lunges at the man and drags him backwards. He is much bigger but has been taken by surprise. Luke launches him back through the door and into the main body of the car park until the man hits the bonnet of a blue Porsche some city tosser has been too pissed to drive home. The alarm shrieks and the man slides to the floor.

The man is stunned, his eyes wide, but he has enough presence of mind to reach for his cock, which is hard and exposed, and tucks it back into his trousers.

Luke looks from the man to Caz, who is staggering after him, her knickers around her ankles, a skirt Luke has never seen before hitched over her bare arse.

Luke feels the fury spread through his body like liquid fire. The dirty bastard was raping Caz. His mind whips back to the night when that poor girl had laid there, shocked and terrified. Luke hadn’t helped her. He was too scared, too pissed, too confused. But tonight he was none of those things.

Luke pulls back his leg and kicks the man in stomach. ‘You fucker.’

The man shrieks and pulls himself into a ball.

Caz yanks down her skirt. ‘What are you doing, Luke?’

Luke looks at his friend, so tiny and thin, and pulls back his leg. This time he aims at the man’s head and feels the soft thud of his trainer as his foot connects.

‘Stop it,’ screams Caz.

‘I’m going to kill him,’ says Luke, and at that moment he means it.

‘Don’t be stupid,’ she says.

‘He’s a rapist,’ says Luke, and steadies himself to take another shot at the man, who is moaning softly. ‘It’s what they all deserve.’

‘Oh, Luke,’ she says, her eyes gleaming with tears. ‘He wasn’t raping me.’

‘What?’

She looks down at the man, blood pouring from a gash above his eye. ‘Come on, we have to get out of here.’

The familiar smell of Chanel No. 5 filled the air.

‘Thanks for coming over,’ said Lilly. ‘You look fantastic.’

Sheba wrinkled her nose. ‘I look fat.’

Admittedly Lilly’s friend was heavier than the last time they’d met during a case at the Old Bailey, but she still retained her old-school glamour.

‘How many months?’ asked Lilly.

Sheba traced a ruby nail across her bump. ‘Five.’

‘It suits you.’

‘No, darling, six-inch heels suit me, but it’s kind of you to say.’

Lilly proffered the bottle of wine. ‘A splash to be sociable?’

Sheba sighed. ‘I suppose that’s all right.’ She picked up her half-empty glass and eyed it with suspicion and irritation. ‘Six units a week and no fags at all, not really me, is it?’

Lilly laughed. She had to admit that it was strange not to see Sheba attached to a double gin and tonic and a Marlboro Light.

‘Physician heal thyself.’ Sheba swallowed the wine in one gulp. ‘So what’s this all about, Lilly?’

‘I have a case.’

‘Of course you do.’

Lilly sipped her own wine. ‘A girl, an asylum seeker. She’s been charged with conspiracy to murder.’

Sheba threw up her hands. ‘Not the shooting at the boarding school?’

Lilly nodded.

‘I’ve seen it all over the telly.’ Sheba wagged her finger. ‘You’re going to be famous. Again.’

‘They don’t know her name or who’s representing her.’

‘Yet.’

Lilly winced.

‘Hold on,’ said Sheba. ‘I thought you were steering clear of these cases? That you’d sold your soul for a new car and a set of fish knives.’

‘I did, I have.’ Lilly laughed. ‘This one kind of fell in my lap.’

Sheba filled her glass from the tap. ‘Snowflakes fall in your lap, Lilly, or apples at a push. Cases have to be accepted, you have to sign on the dotted line.’

She took a sip and seemed so disgusted by the water that she filled Lilly’s glass with more wine. ‘One of us may as well enjoy it.’

‘The thing is,’ said Lilly, ‘I felt duty bound.’

‘Are you sure you’re not Jewish?’

‘Catholic.’

‘I rest my case,’ said Sheba. ‘Next you’ll be telling me you’re adopting this kid.’

Lilly looked up at the ceiling to the room above, where Anna was sleeping.

‘You’re not serious,’ said Sheba.

‘It’s not for long.’

Sheba sloshed more wine into Lilly’s glass. ‘How
do
you do it?’

‘It’s a knack,’ said Lilly. ‘Like crashing cars and forgetting your tax returns. Not everyone is good at it, you know.’

‘So what do you need?’

‘Help.’

‘No shit.’

‘Professional help.’

Sheba nodded and pulled out her attaché case. Inside were reams of cream paper, held together with a paperclip. She laid out a sheet and smoothed it with her hand. The top right-hand corner was embossed with her initials.

Lilly scrabbled for a brown envelope and a biro.

‘My client, Anna, came here from Kosovo. I won’t tell you the whole story, but suffice it to say she lost her family and was smuggled to England.’

Sheba said nothing, her face impassive. Both she and Lilly had seen and heard a lot about human suffering in their careers.

‘She took up with another refugee, a lad, and by all accounts he was pretty unbalanced,’ Lilly continued. ‘He was the shooter.’

‘And where did Anna come in?’

‘That I don’t know. She had a gun but was quickly disarmed. She seems utterly traumatised by everything that’s happened to her and terrified of the shooter. I can’t be sure she had any real understanding of the situation.’

Sheba put down her pen. ‘You think she lacked the mental capacity?’

‘I think she may have acted without question.’

‘That would be very hard to prove,’ said Sheba. ‘Crap things happen to a lot of clients, but that doesn’t excuse murder.’

‘But this is more than the usual horror story: this was a war.’

‘It could be Post Traumatic Stress Disorder,’ said Sheba. ‘You’ll need an expert.’

‘Why do you think I asked you over? Your scintillating conversation?’

Sheba stuck out her tongue and wrote down a number. ‘Give this woman a call. She specialises in this sort of thing.’

‘Will she know where I’m coming from?’

Sheba emptied the rest of the bottle into Lilly’s glass. ‘She’s a Kurd. She lost her husband in Iraq.’

Chapter Eight

Lilly swallowed three aspirins and pushed her hair off her face. Her hand felt clammy.

Sam scowled at his toast. ‘I want some bacon.’

Lilly felt her stomach lurch. ‘How about cornflakes?’

‘I need protein,’ he said. ‘We’ve been doing it at school. It’s what makes us grow.’

Lilly lowered herself into the chair next to Anna.

‘William Mann is four inches taller than me,’ said Sam, ‘and his mum makes him bacon every day. And eggs.’

‘William’s dad is six foot two,’ said Lilly.

‘He probably had a cooked breakfast each morning.’

Lilly sighed and moved last night’s empty bottle. The smell was enough to make her retch.

‘Are you okay, Lilly?’ asked Anna.

She wasn’t about to admit she’d polished off nearly an entire bottle of wine on an empty stomach. ‘I feel a bit off colour,’ she said. ‘Maybe it was something I ate.’

‘Maybe you are pregnant,’ said Anna.

Lilly was too shocked to speak.

‘When women are sick in the morning they often have a baby,’ said Anna. ‘I saw it many times with my mother.’

‘I’m not pregnant.’ She turned to Sam, whose eyes were wide with alarm. ‘I’m definitely not pregnant.’

Sam began to cry.

Lilly put her head on the table. ‘Jesus.’

Anna put her hand on Sam’s shoulder.

‘Don’t touch me,’ he wailed.

Lilly held out a reassuring hand. ‘I know this is tough, big man.’

‘I don’t want her here,’ Sam wailed.

If Lilly’s head were not pounding enough, her son’s anguish was the tipping point. Why had she ever agreed to have Anna here?

Anna looked at Sam, nodded, and got to her feet.

Lilly caught her breath. If Anna walked out, she’d be in breach of her bail conditions and they’d both be up shit creek without a paddle.

‘Anna, please don’t leave.’ Lilly turned to Sam. ‘We can make this work, love.’

‘I am not going to leave,’ said Anna. ‘I make the bacon for Sam.’

Sam wiped at his tears and watched Anna pull a plastic pack out of the fridge.

‘Two pieces?’ Anna asked.

‘Yes please,’ he whispered.

‘How about you, Lilly?’

Lilly took one look at the raw rashers, the pink porkness of it all, and ran from the room.

*  *  *

Lilly wiped the sweat from her face into her hair. Not a good look. Her mouth still tasted of acid bile. She decided to have a lie down.

‘You haven’t forgotten, have you, Mum?’

Sam stood at the foot of her bed, his mouth greasy from his breakfast.

‘I haven’t forgotten your bad manners, young man,’ she said.

He rolled his eyes. ‘I meant the service.’ He gestured to her dressing gown, the belt lost years ago and replaced by an old school tie of David’s. ‘You can’t go like that.’

The school service for Charlie Stanton.

‘It wouldn’t be appropriate for me to go,’ said Lilly.

Sam threw his arms around him like a windmill. Even watching made Lilly dizzy.

‘But everyone’s going. I can’t be the only one whose mum’s not there.’

‘What about your dad?’ asked Lilly.

‘He’s got to work.’

‘So have I,’ said Lilly.

‘Cara’s going to be there.’ He turned to leave. ‘She said you wouldn’t go.’

Lilly’s spine straightened at the thought of Botox Belle, the most upright she’d been all morning. ‘I’ll see you at eleven.’

This 40 message thread spans 10 pages

[1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] ≫

Wake Up and Smell the Coffee
Little Lamb at 5.30 I am so excited I can’t sleep.

The shooting at Manor Park must finally alert the people of Britain to what these foreigners are really like.

Every paper and TV station is covering it!

Wake Up and Smell the Coffee
Blood River at 5.50 I know exactly what you mean, Little Lamb.

The great Enoch Powell predicted this so long ago but the public wouldn’t listen.

Wake Up and Smell the Coffee
Fire Starter at 6.10 They were too busy listening to Red Ken and the rest of the liberal middle-class elite.

Wake Up and Smell the Coffee
Blood River at 6.21 But now the immigrants have taken the struggle to them and bitten them right where it hurts, they can’t ignore this problem any longer.

The leftist press, usually so determined to pretend that multicultural Britain is working just fine, has been forced to recognise that these interlopers are not just a threat to our culture but our safety as a nation.

Wake Up and Smell the Coffee
Saxon King at 6.25 But we can’t just sit and gloat or that poor kid will have died in vain.

We must keep the pressure on.

Wake Up and Smell the Coffee
Little Lamb at 6.36 Agreed.

Wake Up and Smell the Coffee
Blood River at 6.40 Agreed.

Wake Up and Smell the Coffee
Fire Starter at 6.42 Agreed.

Snow White didn’t have time to read the other posts but was sure each one would pledge support. Their time had come and each must play their part.

She clucked at the kitchen. The girls had left their oily plates and discarded sausages on any available surface. Grandpa had never allowed her to leave the house until all was shipshape. He would have beaten her for this unholy mess.

She would have a word with the girls when they returned tonight. School discipline would sort them out, as it had their elder brother, but in the meantime it fell to Snow White to whip them into shape. Their father was a good man but was far too soft when it came to children. They would whinge and whine and call her a nag, but they needed to learn about responsibility.

As she wiped a cloth through a smear of ketchup she turned her mind to her own responsibility to the Stantons, and the cause. She held up her chin. She had a duty to her town and country.

‘You’re a good man, Jack McNally,’ said Lilly.

‘I know.’

‘A saint.’

‘I know.’

Lilly rubbed a tea towel over her stiletto-heeled boots. ‘Like Mother Teresa but without the headscarf.’

‘Yep.’

‘Or Padre Pio, without the bleeding hands.’

She was making light of the situation but knew he was placing his job on the line to help her. Sometimes she wondered how far she would be prepared to push him.

‘You’re a martyr,’ she said.

‘It’s nice of you to say but I’m still puzzled,’ he pointed to her footless fishnet stockings, ‘as to where you left the other half of your tights.’

Lilly wiggled her toes. ‘I got them for a sixties party.’

‘But you’re going to a funeral.’

‘Prayer service,’ she corrected. ‘And they’re the only ones clean.’ She pulled on her boots. ‘Besides, you can’t see my feet in these.’ She zipped them up to her knees and smoothed down her skirt. Only a flash of fishnet showed in the split. ‘Whaddya think?’

Jack whistled. ‘I think you should skip the sermon.’

‘Easy, tiger, you’re here to babysit.’

Jack sighed and followed Lilly to the door. ‘Is she upstairs?’

‘Hardly comes down.’ She kissed him on the cheek. ‘But if she does I’m reliably informed she makes a mean eggs and bacon.’

She jumped in the car, started the car engine and wound down the window. Jack was inspecting the door frame.

‘This seems better,’ he said.

Lilly swallowed a sudden feeling of guilt. ‘I think it’s dried out.’

Jack frowned at the rain that had been pouring all night and showed no sign of stopping anytime soon.

Lilly was never on time. Her mum always said she’d be late for her own funeral. Well, not this one. She pulled into Manor Park with fifteen minutes to spare.

Her pulse fluttered as she passed the cameras and microphones at the gate but she reminded herself that they had no idea who she was. There was absolutely no need to panic. She would glide into the school.

‘Fuck a duck,’ she yelled. The place was already mobbed with cars parked right down the drive. There were so many 4
x
4s it was like an off-road rally.

She drove round the buildings, determined to find a place nearer to the chapel. For one it was still peeing it down, and for another she could barely walk in her heels.

On her second tour she spotted someone pulling out. ‘Oh, baby, come to Mama.’

She pulled onto the gravel, ignoring the ‘Teachers Only’ sign. Surely today was an exception.

She hadn’t even got out when the Amazonian figure of Mrs Baraclough loomed over the windscreen. ‘You can’t park here, Mrs Valentine.’

Lilly peered up at the headmaster’s secretary, who seemed even taller and wider than usual in her grey suit. Why did the woman insist on calling her ‘Mrs’? She knew full well she and David were no longer married.

‘There’s nowhere else,’ she said.

‘Back field has been designated for parents,’ said Mrs Baraclough. ‘All the way down to the ha-ha.’

Lilly imagined what a quagmire it would be on the pitches stretching all the way down to the dip that had once kept wild animals out of the mansion house gardens.

‘But I’ll be late if I go back down there now.’

Mrs Baraclough raised one eyebrow and Lilly knew it was pointless to argue. She gunned the engine and pulled out, with the gargantuan woman’s voice ringing behind her: ‘The speed limit on school grounds is fifteen miles per hour.’

Lilly circled the drive, waited for Mrs Baraclough to go back inside and took back her place in exactly the same spot. She jumped out of the car. It was less than five hundred yards to the chapel. If she ran she would be bang on time.

With her head held high she strode off: ‘Who pays the fees round here?’

With less than ten feet to solid ground, her heart sank as the grass gave way to something softer. Her feet sank low in the sludge, her heels making a gassy slurp with each step. She tried walking on her tiptoes but fell forward, only her hands stopping her from falling headfirst into the mud.

‘There is no such thing as God,’ she said out loud. ‘And don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.’

She heard tutting from behind and saw the chaplain and his wife huddled under their umbrella. They glared at her before passing.

At last she reached the school, her boots brown to the ankle, her hands desperately in need of a wash. She headed for the loos, but halfway down the corridor collided with Mrs Baraclough.

‘You’re late, Mrs Valentine,’ she said.

‘I need to…’

‘No time for that.’ Mrs Baraclough spun Lilly around and guided her into the chapel.

There was nothing else for it. When she thought no one was looking, Lilly opened her jacket and wiped her hands on the lining.

Alexia hung up her coat. A MaxMara wraparound she had got her father to pay for at London Fashion Week two years ago. It was soft and stylish, yet it felt dated. She’d never before had to wear anything for more than a season.

What she needed was something timeless. Dior or Yves Saint Laurent. She knew she need only pick up the phone and he’d have something sent over, but what would that achieve? All this hard work, this denial, this
poverty
, would be for nothing. He’d smile in that condescending way of his and congratulate himself that, once again, he’d been right all along.

Alexia couldn’t bear to give him the satisfaction. She’d come this far and she’d stick it out. She’d prove to him that he was wrong about her.

She turned away from the coat and logged on. She’d spent hours in the racist chat rooms, ploughing through the vitriol to find any mention of the girl’s whereabouts. There was a lot of speculation, some less sanguine than others, but no one seemed to know for sure.

She went into her ‘favourites’ and clicked on
The Spear of Truth.
How on earth had that become one of her most used websites? She didn’t consider herself a left-wing person or anything—God, all that politically correct stuff got right up her nose—but she knew enough black people to know these Internet nutters were spouting a load of rubbish. She had shared a room in school with a girl from Saudi Arabia and was damned sure her parents weren’t on benefits.

‘What’s happening, Posh?’

Alexia sighed and wandered over to Steve’s office. Another day of his carping might drive her over the edge.

He sat on the edge of his desk and struck a match. Alexia pointed to the ‘No Smoking’ sign on the wall. ‘Does the ban mean nothing to you?’

Steve blew a perfect ring that floated to meet the sign. ‘It only applies to public buildings,’ he said.

‘And places of work.’

Steve took a deep drag. ‘This is my home.’

Alexia looked around at the peeling woodchip, the framed clippings on the wall, a Kylie calendar stuck permanently open on May 2002.

‘You do not live here,’ she said.

‘Tell my wife that.’

‘I’ll sue you if I get cancer.’

He dug into his pocket and slammed a fistful of change on the desk. ‘Take it in advance.’

Alexia shook her head and headed back to her computer.

‘Got anything for me?’ Steve called after her.

She ignored him and went into the site. The forums were frenzied with hysterical predictions for an all-out race war. She scrolled down the page, hoping to find something—anything.

Wake Up and Smell the Coffee
Snow White at 9.55

I truly believe that every one of us has a part to play in the bringing about of change to this great nation. We will all be called upon to fight, each in our own way.