Running Girl (40 page)

Garvie's mother said, ‘If only she'd told somebody. If only there'd been someone she could tell.'

‘She was too young,' Uncle Len said. ‘Fifteen's no age. You can imagine. She didn't know what to do, the poor girl.'

There was a sharp crack of furniture as Garvie abruptly got to his feet and made for the door.

His mother frowned. ‘Where are you going?'

‘Out.'

‘Out?'

‘Felix's.'

‘You've still got your exams to do, you know that. Next month.'

‘Said I'd pick up those maths books from him.'

Their eyes met.

‘OK,' she said quietly. ‘Be careful.'

He nodded.

Singh caught Garvie's eye and they looked at each other for a moment. ‘I have to go now,' the inspector said. ‘I can give him a lift.'

They drove slowly out of Eastwick Gardens and down Pilkington Driftway, Singh peering through windscreen wipers, Garvie slouched in the passenger seat, staring out of the streaming window at the blurred haze of rain lit up in ragged patches of streetlamps that were just coming on, his face a mask of inscrutability.

Singh glanced over at him and cleared his throat. ‘Finally,' he said, ‘it
is
the end.'

Garvie made no reply and Singh went on, ‘Don't take it the wrong way if I say I hope there won't be much opportunity for us to see each other again.'

A snort implied that this was not high up on Garvie's list of griefs. Singh clicked in exasperation, and they drove on in awkward silence to the end of the Driftway and into Old Ditch Road.

Garvie tapped on the side window. ‘This'll do.'

‘Here?' Singh pulled up. ‘This is where your friend lives?' Looking through the rain, he saw that they were parked alongside the Old Ditch Road play area. In the blurry darkness he could see the outlines of figures sitting on the roundabout and swings.

‘Near enough,' Garvie said.

Singh watched him haul his bag out from under his feet with his one good hand. ‘What's in the bag?' he asked.

‘Half-finished bottle of Glen's, some tobacco, cigarette papers and a five-spot from Alex.'

‘Really?'

‘No. I'm just messing with you.'

He sat there staring back at Singh, who shifted stiffly in his seat, and there was a pause between them that went on and on.

‘I know you don't want to talk about Chloe ...' Singh began.

Garvie said, ‘I heard it all back there, man. Poor Chloe Dow. Poor pretty little fifteen-year-old Chloe Dow. If only she hadn't got mixed up with the wrong people, if only she'd hadn't had so many secrets, if only she'd
told
someone. Yeah, well, you know what? I'm not going to think of her like that. Maybe I didn't like her. Four weeks going out with her was enough for me. But I respected her, right. Why else do you think I let her give everyone the impression she'd dumped me? She was the brass girl. She was a gambler, she played the cards she'd been dealt. Girls like that' – he shook his head fiercely – ‘they get hit on, they get harassed, and they have babies and have to work for some scumbag in a casino somewhere, and they tough it out. They're not perfect, but they're not victims. They live their lives. It's not because they're victims they get the fuzzy end of a bad deal.'

He came to an end then, panting slightly, and Singh bit his lip.

‘I know you think about Hannah too,' he said quietly.

For a while they sat listening to the small rain crackle softly on the car roof. Then Singh said, ‘I've got something for you.'

‘Oh yeah? A summons?'

The policeman took a package out of his jacket pocket and handed it to Garvie, who stared at it suspiciously.

‘I haven't got anything to give you back.'

‘That's OK.'

Inside the package was a plain steel bracelet, grooved at the edges.

‘A
kara
,' Singh said. ‘One of the five kakars, symbols of the Sikh faith.'

‘I wasn't thinking of converting.'

‘Non-Sikhs are encouraged to wear the
kara
. It symbolizes the need for righteousness.' He hesitated. ‘Also it can be used as a knuckle-duster in
loh mushti
, iron-fist fighting. Though naturally I do not recommend that,' he said stiffly. ‘It will remind you,' he added. ‘If you can bear to be reminded.'

Garvie shifted uncomfortably.

‘It's an odd thing to say,' Singh continued, ‘but perhaps it will remind you of this country when you've gone.'

‘Gone? Gone where?'

‘To Barbados. I know you don't want to. But I'm sure your mother knows what's best for you.'

Garvie shook his head and pushed open the car door. ‘Just so you know, man. We're not going to Barbados. I don't know what gave you that idea. Mum got a promotion at City Central. We're moving to be near my aunt and uncle.'

‘Oh. Then you must be glad. At least, a little.'

Garvie said nothing. He didn't look as if he ever expected to be glad again. He pushed himself away from the car, pulled up his hood, and there was a clink of bottle glass inside his bag as he swung it up onto his good shoulder. Through the rain-streaked window of his car Singh watched him cross the road towards the playground, a boy in slouch skinny jeans and baggy hoodie, so alone and slender his figure seemed to waver in the vertical drizzle as he disappeared into the gloom beyond the streetlamps, to be swallowed up in the quiet and darkness of the playground, and, faintly, Singh heard a boy's voice call out, ‘Hey, Sherlock! Got a mystery for you.'

He heard nothing else. He put his car in gear and drove away.

The writing of a book is a collaborative effort. Warm and comradely thanks to David Fickling and Bella Pearson, whose characteristically expert advice made this book a better thing, and to Hannah Featherstone, Matilda Johnson and Hannah Leigh for their acute reading and invaluable comments. Thanks also to Mariana Casement Moreira for her sharp eyes. More thanks to Sophie Nelson for her judicious copy-editing and to my friend Ted Walker for his review of the maths. Special thanks to my agent of twenty-five years, Anthony Goff, whose belief in this book will remain a talking point between us for years to come. Ultimate thanks, though, to Eleri and Gwilym, who told me why I was getting it wrong, and to Eluned, who told me I would get it right in the end.

Simon Mason is an author of children's and adult books. His first adult novel, a black comedy entitled
The Great English Nude
, won the Betty Trask first novel award and his children's book
Moon Pie
was shortlisted for the Guardian Children's Fiction prize.
Running Girl
is his first story starring Garvie Smith.

Simon lives in Oxford with his wife and their two children.

Moon Pie
The Quigleys
The Quigleys at Large
The Quigleys Not for Sale
The Quigleys in a Spin