“Yeah, right,” she said, and Jack could hear the struggle in her voice. “I can’t do that. No way.”
“Why not?”
Jack heard more of the sounds of the city, but she was silent.
“Why can’t you go to the police?” Jack asked.
“Because he would-”
She stopped herself. There were more urban sounds in the background, and Jack thought he heard her breathing. No, she was crying.
“Are you all right?” Jack asked.
The crying continued, stronger but more distant, as if she had taken the phone away from her face.
“Don’t hang up,” said Jack. “I need to know: Are you all right?”
The crying stopped, and Jack heard her take a deep breath.
“No,” she said, sobbing, “I’m not.”
Before Jack could respond, the caller was gone.
Chapter Thirty-one
Her heart was pounding as she hung up the pay phone at the street corner. One thought consumed her, but she could barely get her mind around it. The gruesome photographs she’d seen weren’t staged. Jamal was dead, his foot cut off.
OMG!
She was shivering, partly from the cold but mostly with fright. This time of year, sunrise didn’t come to London until almost eight o’clock. Thirty minutes past dawn, the chill of night was still in the air, and the morning fog was so thick that she could barely see the top of the three-story redbrick buildings that defined the beaten- down neighborhood. She was in a place she knew well, near the Tayo Restaurant, the Hilaac Superstore, and the all-important Internet cafe. Neighborhood shops were opening for another business day, buses were running, and streets were lined with morning commuters. None of it put her at ease. There was no doubt in her mind that gangs like the Money Squad and African Nations Crew were still on the prowl, searching for young girls like her who were stupid enough to venture out alone. Gang violence terrified her. It had taken all the courage she could muster to head out before daybreak, and the brief telephone conversation with Jamal’s lawyer had only heightened her fears. Creepy blokes were everywhere. Like that man sitting on the curb and talking to himself.
Why is he looking at me?
The other runaways at the train station had called her paranoid. “Chill out,” they told her. “Bethnal Green has a reputation, but it’s not that bad these days. Lots of kids and parents with babies. Certainly not the worst area in London.”
Chill out? People who said that were the same morons who would tell someone in a coma to “cheer up.” She knew better. You didn’t stop for a cigarette, didn’t load your iPod, didn’t even answer your mobile on these streets. She’d read about the girl who’d disappeared outside King’s Cross railway station-blond and sixteen, just like her. Scotland Yard found her on the other side of Euston Road, her throat slit and panties stuffed in her mouth. Things were no safer in Bethnal Green, even if the tube stations weren’t nearly as big. There were still creeps begging for money, bumming cigarettes, asking if you’re selling, tagging along, talking nonstop to you, refusing to go away, looking for runaways and teenage girls who bit their fingernails and tugged at their hair in ways that made them ripe for appropriation to whoring exercises. “Those are just the flavors of London’s northern lines,” people told her.
Flavors? Ha!
Sure, once you knew an area, you could spot trouble and steer away from the dodgy bloke. She knew the difference between a normal person and those who broke the conventional rules of social engagement-the skanks who stood too close, rubbed up against you, grabbed a feel. But, realistically, what could a girl do? A man might think nothing of standing alone at a bus stop two blocks away from the scene of the latest stabbing. A girl doing the same thing would quickly be asked how much she charged for a blow job. Having a dally with a creepy bloke, being half nice in case he demands money, but also trying to get rid of the unwanted visitor without offending-diffusing a potentially aggressive situation-required a bit of sharp thinking. Even a bit of paranoia.
Just a bit. I’m not PARANOID!
It was a safe bet that the jerks who’d teased her and called her chickenshit had never been dragged along by the hair on London’s sidewalks. Who the hell were they to go slagging her off as paranoid? If those losers started up again, then she was going to treat them back to the playground crap they dished out.
You want war, then this is war, you shits!
She drew a deep breath, then glanced across the street. She had to focus. Jamal was dead.
Double OMG!
Her mobile rang. She was afraid to answer, but the incoming number was enough to make her shudder. It was him. He knew her every move. Sixteen years old, and her life felt like prison.
I am a prisoner.
Her mobile continued to ring, but she let it go. There would be hell to pay for not answering, but she wasn’t prepared to explain what she’d been doing. And she would need a damn good explanation. He kept track of every penny he gave her, and five pounds for an international calling card from the Internet cafe was not an allowable expense. She ducked into the convenience store, grabbed a banana from the bin, and asked the clerk for a receipt.
“Can you make it out for five pounds?” she asked.
“What?”
“The receipt,” she said. “Can you make it for five pounds?”
“You bought a banana.”
“I know. But I need a receipt that says I paid five pounds.”
“Then buy ten bananas.”
“I just need the receipt. Can you do that?”
“Sure.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” he said, and then he grabbed his crotch. “Have this banana.”
Her mobile rang, and she didn’t even have to check the incoming number. She was suddenly all too aware of the bracelet on her ankle. It was always there, twenty-four hours a day. It was probably a lot like Jamal’s-except that hers hadn’t been put there by the police. She wanted to rip it off, but that would be a very foolish move. There was a reason he had shown her those photographs of Jamal.
“He’ll cut my foot off, too!”
“You want the banana or not?” asked the clerk.
She was almost too flustered to answer. “Forget it.”
She hurried out of the store, her mobile still ringing, not sure what she was going to say when she got back to the flat and he grabbed her by the hair and said, “What the hell have you been up to, you little slut?”
Chapter Thirty-two
I’m sorry for the loss of your son,” said Jack.
Neil echoed Jack’s sentiment, and Maryam Wakefield expressed her appreciation quietly. She looked physically and emotionally drained, and with good reason.
Wednesday morning marked three days since Jamal’s death-the end of the traditional Islamic mourning period for any relative of the deceased other than the widow of a married man. On Sunday Jamal’s uncle flew down from Minneapolis to be with Maryam, but the medical examiner didn’t complete his autopsy and release the body until early Tuesday. Islamic law called for a quick burial and disfavored transportation of the body. Jamal’s uncle
