The man says, ‘Listen. We don’t have time. We don’t. My dad’s in that house and he’s sent me out to get you.’
Mia begins to cry. She says, ‘What does he want?’
‘To make you his little girl.’
‘I don’t want to be his little girl.’
‘Then come with me.’
‘Who are you?’
‘Patrick.’ He thrusts out his hand. ‘This way.’
When Mia doesn’t take the hand, he simply strides to the kitchen door of the empty house and tries it. It’s locked of course. So he takes off his hoodie and wraps it round his fist.
He puts his fist through the window, brushes loose glass from the frame. Then he wriggles like a worm through the broken window. He appears at the kitchen door and opens it. And still, Mia doesn’t scream.
She thinks she shouldn’t go with this man, but she hurries on bare feet to the Robertsons’ kitchen door. She and the man hurry through the monstrous, echoing darkness of the empty house. The ghosts of all the families who lived here before watch from the black corners.
They come to the front door. Patrick opens it. They sneak out, back into the cold night.
And then they’re running.
Henry finishes smearing the word on the wall. He calls out, ‘Patrick?’
There’s no answer.
Then he hears a noise.
It’s a pane of glass shattering. And Henry knows. Just like that.
He looks at the mess in the room. The mess on his clothes and in his hair.
He jogs to the kitchen. The door is open. No glass is broken.
He thinks of the empty house next door.
He returns to the living room and hurries to pack. It takes too long. His things are wet and his hands are busy with rage.
Then he slings on the backpack and rushes out the front door.
He sprints for the car.
They run silently. Patrick has told her to be quiet as a mouse, not to make a noise, because if they do, his dad will know where they are.
Patrick is faster than Mia, whose feet are bare and tender on the hard pavement.
Now he turns, hopping up and down on the spot.
Hurry up! Come on! Please!
She tries. But there’s a green bottle of lager in the gutter and Mia steps on a shard of glass.
She doesn’t make much of a noise, and Patrick is proud of her.
But these are quiet streets.
Henry hears a child cry out.
A girl.
He runs faster. He pumps his arms. In his hand is a carpet knife.
Patrick runs to Mia. His tears have thinned the blood on the side of his face.
‘I know it hurts,’ he whispers. ‘I know it does. But please.’
She limps to him, fast as she can.
Patrick kneels. He and Mia are face-to-face. ‘Please let me carry you.’
She hesitates, balancing on one foot. But when she sees the way his eyes glance fearfully over her shoulder, she says, ‘Okay.’
Patrick scoops Mia into his arms, the cold skin and warm core of her. She’s all rods and knobs, heavier than she looks.
He runs.
The car isn’t far.
Henry turns a corner at speed and sees them.
There’s Patrick, hobbling along with the girl in his arms.
Her foot is blood black.
Henry laughs, but it doesn’t sound like a laugh.
He runs faster still.
Patrick reaches the car and sets Mia down.
‘Wait just for one minute. Watch the road for me.’
She leans against the car, watching the long straight avenue.
Patrick searches in his pockets for the keys. His hand is shaking.
Mia whimpers, deep in the back of her throat.
‘What?’ Patrick says. He’s trying to get the key into the lock.
‘He’s coming.’
Patrick looks up to see Henry sprinting down the road. Lunatic, blood smeared. He’s got a carpet knife in his hand.
Patrick knows he won’t get the car started in time.
‘Mia,’ he says. ‘Run now. Scream. Make as much noise as you can.’
Mia sees the look in his eyes. Then she bolts.
As she runs, she screams.
What she screams, again and again, is Please.
Patrick waits, keys in hand, as Henry descends upon him.
He isn’t scared.
He’s thinking of his bike. A BMX.
Henry doesn’t slow. He just keeps coming and coming.
Patrick braces himself.
Henry punches his shoulder into Patrick’s solar plexus. Patrick smashes into the bonnet of the car.
Henry grabs his throat, stretches him out. Rips and lacerates with the carpet knife.
As Patrick slips from the bonnet of the car, Henry runs in pursuit of the screaming child, knife in hand.
She’s only little. She won’t have gone far.
And Henry is very, very fast.
CHAPTER 21
Luther drives to Highbury Fields and parks across the square. He knits his hands on the steering wheel and watches Crouch’s red Jaguar.
He waits for a long time. He doesn’t know how long. His mind is blank with hate.
Then he grabs the pickaxe handle from the front passenger footwell and gets out of the Volvo.
He marches across the park and smashes the driver’s side window of the Jaguar.
The car begins to beep and shriek in panic.
From his pocket, Luther takes a brand new can of lighter fluid. He squirts it through the car’s broken window, over the dashboard and the leather upholstery.
A car’s interior contains the parts that are easiest to ignite: carpets, seating foam, soft plastic. And a fire in a car’s interior spreads quickly.
He watches the car blaze. He’s not scared of an explosion; petrol tanks are made of thick metal. It’s unlikely the car will explode with concussive force. And if it does, then so be it. He’d welcome it.
He stands upwind, but the smoke still makes his eyes water.
He waits and waits. Flames singe his eyebrows.
He hears distant sirens.
And then Crouch emerges from his house. He’s sockless in slip-on shoes, shock-headed, hurriedly
