Nowhere Child (12 page)

I realise that I will probably never see Andy again but I’m happy for him. He’s going to be safe too, and I know I’m never going to forget him.

I suddenly feel so lucky. However crap my life has been, at least I had my mum for six years, then Izzy and now Emma and Ollie. And at the worst time in my life I had Andy – a boy who had never had a happy day in his life, but whose only wish was to protect me because he hadn’t been able to save his sister.

For the first time ever, I feel as if nothing else can go wrong for me now.

*

Neither Tasha nor Emma looked as if they had slept a wink, as far as Tom could see. He was sorry for them and the added stress they were going through, but if they wanted to be a family then a few more hoops had to be negotiated.

Tasha’s face as he told her the news about her friend, though, was a picture. When this was all over, perhaps he would be able to find a way for the two kids to be in touch with each other.

Andy’s wish to protect Tasha meant he had told her one lie that Tom wasn’t going to divulge. She believed him to be fourteen, but he was actually only twelve.

Tom was sure Andy had said he was older so Tasha would let him look after her. If she’d known he was younger, she would have thought she had to look after him, and that wasn’t what he wanted. Tom hoped that by saving Tasha the way he did, Andy might now be able to forgive himself for failing to save his sister – something that was in no way his fault.

He was a brave lad, and braver than Tasha realised. Becky Robinson had been shocked by what she saw when she visited Andy in hospital.

‘Tom – he was lying in bed with bandages around his stomach, so his chest and arms were bare. He’s got loads of tiny scars all over his upper body – deep pink, shiny areas. The nurse said they’re all cigarette burns. She let slip, although she probably shouldn’t have, that as well as the broken arm at some stage his ribs have been broken too, possibly more than once.’

Tom would personally have liked to seek out the father of this boy – a kid so brave he had risked his own life for his friend – and knock the bastard from here to next week. Of course, he couldn’t do that. But he had checked and discovered the father had been given a fifteen-year prison sentence. Not long enough, in Tom’s opinion, but it was something.

Now, though, Tom had to push all of that to the back of his mind and focus on the issue of keeping Emma and Tasha safe from whatever he was certain Finn McGuinness was going to throw at them. The only saving grace was that Tom couldn’t think of any way that McGuinness could know that Tasha was home.

21

Finn McGuinness’s visitor made his way onto the busy concourse of Piccadilly Station, and straight to the public phone box. The smell of fresh bagels from the nearby shop wafted his way, drowning out the usual smells of too many bodies in one place, and his stomach rumbled. He couldn’t face food right now, though. He was about to do something that might sign his own death warrant.

He fed money into the machine and dialled a number he had memorised, piling additional coins up ready, should they be needed.

The ringing tone at the other end of the phone sounded strange, but he didn’t have time to think about that because it stopped after two rings and he felt beads of sweat erupt from his top lip and forehead. He wiped the hand that wasn’t holding the phone on the leg of his jeans.

‘Well?’ a voice said.

‘I’ve seen him.’

‘I know you have.’ He should have guessed that he couldn’t lie, or pretend things were different to how they were. ‘And?’

‘He’s had the word – someone from social services on his payroll, I guess.’

‘And the plan is?’

The visitor hurriedly explained what he was expected to do and when, hating himself for the tremor in his voice.

‘If I don’t do it,’ he said, ‘that bastard McGuinness will have me tracked down. I’m
dead
if I don’t do it.’

‘Then do it,’ was the unexpected response.

He couldn’t have heard that right. He had thought this was going to be his way out – his way of escaping McGuinness’s grasp – and all he would have to do was report the plan to the man on the phone, take the money on offer and then do a runner. He wanted out.

He had thought himself so cool when he was recruited by the gang when he was just fifteen. The simple tasks he had been given to begin with had escalated to occasional acts of brutality, but nothing on this scale. And now he was being told to go through with it by the person he had thought would save him.

‘Are you sure?’ he asked. He had thought this bloke was one of the good guys, but maybe he’d got it wrong.

‘Yes – do it. But not until I say so. I need some time – call me again in two hours.’

The phone went dead.

The man replaced the receiver and walked out into the concourse, the smell of the bagels now making him feel physically sick. He should have tried harder to find the girl in the first place and done what he’d been told to do. She was one homeless kid. But this was a whole different ball game, and one he really didn’t want to play.

22

The day Tom had spent with Emma, Ollie and Tasha had been good, and he had felt bad picking Ollie up in his arms and putting him in the child seat in the back of the car at the end of the afternoon. Emma was trying hard to put a brave face on it, and Tasha just looked guilty. The road ahead for this family was going to be fraught with difficulty, but Emma was a determined woman, and he hoped and prayed that they would make it.

Despite Emma’s refusal to consider protective custody, Tom hadn’t been happy to leave her house until reinforcements had arrived. Something was brewing – something he couldn’t see, hear or touch, but it was happening nevertheless. He wanted two policemen on duty at the house at all times and had waited until they had been fully briefed.

At the moment the only people who knew Tasha was back were social services and the handful of police who would be used to keep an eye on Emma’s house. Becky knew, of course, but he had asked her to keep a small team out on the streets looking for Tasha. Together with Emma’s visit to Manchester the day before, it should be enough to convince anybody watching that Tasha was still missing.

Tom had spent some time that day coaching Tasha. Not to put words into her mouth, but to give her an idea of how the questioning might go – particularly from McGuinness’s defence counsel. They wouldn’t go easy on her because she was a kid. She was nervous and anxious, but her answers had been clear, and Tom was confident that she would do a good job at the trial.

Emma hated the fact that they were virtually under house arrest, but without Ollie at her side she couldn’t keep up her previous performance in the city centre.

‘Can’t I even go to the shops?’ Emma had asked, her frustration clear.

‘You can’t take Tasha, and you can’t leave her here on her own. So I’ll do it for you,’ Tom had offered as he left the house. ‘I’ll go now, and bring you the stuff tomorrow.’

‘Okay, Ollie?’ Tom said over his shoulder to the little boy strapped into his chair in the back of the car as he drove along, heading for the supermarket.

‘Kay,’ came the high-pitched voice. Tom smiled. Ollie was a placid kid and no trouble really.

He pulled the car into the car park, picked up Ollie and sat him in the back of a trolley, his chubby little legs swinging.

‘Come on, then,’ he said to the little boy. ‘Let’s go and get some bits and pieces for your mum and something for our tea, shall we?’

Ollie nodded, and rocked his head from side to side as Tom pushed him – clearly enjoying the view from this height. He beamed at everybody who passed, and most of them grinned back.

Tom was selecting some nappies for Ollie when it happened.

He had his back to the aisle, and the voice came from behind his back.

‘Tom Douglas?’

Tom turned round. A man in bike leathers and a helmet – visor down – was standing behind him, holding out an envelope.

‘This is for you.’

Tom frowned and kept his hands by his side. ‘Who are you? And how did you know where to find me?’

There was no answer.

Tom wasn’t going to take the envelope until he knew more.

‘Which company do you work for?’ he asked.

The man – fairly young by the look of his slim body – waved the envelope again. When Tom still didn’t take it, he spoke.

‘I was told you might be difficult. So just read the front of the envelope, and then take it.’

The man turned the envelope over, and Tom felt the blood drain from his face. His hand shot out to take the envelope. This couldn’t be happening. It couldn’t be real. He glanced up at the young man, but all he saw was his back, disappearing into the crowd of shoppers, and his eyes were drawn back to the envelope he was holding.

Five words, that was all. But enough to send a flash of ice down Tom’s back.

23

The man parked his motorbike – the one he had nicked from Rory Slater on the basis that he wouldn’t be needing it for a while – in the woods just down the road from Emma Joseph’s house. This was his second trip of the day, and the final one. From here, there really was no going back.

After his visit to the prison that morning and the subsequent phone calls, he had been on a mission, collecting supplies from all the names he had been given. He didn’t feel as if he’d had a moment to give any serious thought to what he was about to do, and he knew if he stopped to think, he might falter.

There had been too much to carry on the bike in a single trip, so he had travelled here earlier that evening after darkness had fallen, creeping silently into the woods, hiding the first batch of purchases under a shrub, covering them with the still fresh autumn leaves. It was unlikely anybody would be walking here on such a cold, miserable night – but he couldn’t be sure, so his supplies had to be concealed well.

It was now half past two, and the time seemed about right. Even people who have trouble sleeping have usually nodded off by now, and it was too soon for the early awakeners. He reckoned he had about an hour to do everything necessary.

He picked up both backpack sprayers and put one over each shoulder. He could carry the bag of bottles wrapped in bubble wrap in his left hand and before he picked up his small equipment bag in the other, he pulled down his balaclava. With the exception of a white patch around his eyes, his leathers and head covering allowed him to blend into the night. Even his two white plastic backpacks had been wrapped in black polythene.

He set off through the dark woodland, leaning forwards slightly to accommodate his burdens but also to help him peer into the shadowy depths between the trees and find his way. He couldn’t use a torch – nobody must see him.

The most dangerous stretch for him was the small section of road that he would have to walk along to reach the house, but few vehicles came this way, and he would see their headlights approaching, lighting up the night sky, before they saw him.

As he drew close to the house, he could see two cars parked in the drive. One, he knew, was Emma Joseph’s. The other was a police car. He had been warned that the police would be here, protecting the girl.

He made his way towards the front of the house, keeping to the grass to avoid any sound of footfalls on the gravel path. There was a light on in a room at the front of the house, and he guessed that would be where the police had positioned themselves. His first job was to cut off the door from that room into the hall.

Leaving the two backpacks and the bag of bubble wrap on the lawn, he made his way around the back of the house, carefully, silently, reaching over to unbolt the side gate. There were no lights in the kitchen or upstairs, and the house seemed peaceful, its usual occupants no doubt deep in a dreamless sleep. He hoped so – and that they stayed that way. Only the policemen in the sitting room would be awake.

He was relieved to discover that the back door had a number of small panes of double-glazed glass, which would be ideal for his purposes – much better than having to remove a whole window. He took out some tools, gently prised off the beading from around one of the panes and carefully removed the glass, placing it on the floor. He then returned to the front of the house, where he had already discovered that next to the front door were panes of decorative glass. Once again he removed the beading from around one of these, working silently until an empty hole gave him the access he needed. He could just hear a murmur in the background and realised that the policemen were watching the television. He needed to move quickly in case one of them left the sitting room.

He picked up one of the backpacks – the one marked with a small white X in the top corner – and started to walk around the outside of the house, spraying the wooden window frames, down the brickwork and along the base of the wall. An area of wooden facing boards at the back of the extension received special attention because he knew that the brickwork would allow some of the liquid to be absorbed and therefore might not be as effective as he would like.

Round at the back of the house, he took the second backpack and extended the arm to the maximum, pushing it through the empty window frame and through the cat flap to a different part of the kitchen to spray the wooden furniture as best he could. He sprayed up
into the air for good measure, knowing that the droplets would ignite and create a ball of fire high up, which would begin to work its way through to the bedrooms. The gaping holes in the windows would help too – oxygen had to be in constant supply to keep the fire burning.

Praying that the smell wouldn’t penetrate until he had finished his preparations for the front of the house, he quickly returned to the porch entrance and began to spray the inside of the hallway, giving the area around the sitting-room door extra attention.

He had decided that paraffin was a better option for the inside of the house because it didn’t evaporate as quickly as petrol, a potential problem inside a warm house. The wooden floors in the hall were ideal, because carpet might have soaked too much of the liquid, and every drop was going to count here. He had used petrol for the outside.