Phil stood against the side of the building, waiting for the feeling to subside. Why? he thought. Why now? Nothing had happened; he hadn’t done anything to exert himself. Why here? Why now?
He took a deep breath. Waited a few seconds. His panic attacks had become much less frequent recently. He put that down to his newly settled home life with Marina and their daughter Josephina. His job hadn’t got any easier, less distressing or less involving. But now he had people he loved and who loved him. And a happy home to go to at the end of the working day. That was as much as he had ever asked for and more than he ever thought he would get.
Because Phil had never believed in long-term happiness. His own upbringing – children’s homes and foster homes, fear and violence – had put paid to that. He wasn’t taking anything for granted and didn’t know how long this would last, but he was enjoying it. Every nerve-racking second. If this was happiness, then it was the happiness of the tightrope walker managing to keep his balance.
He opened his eyes. Mickey was standing before him, concern on his features.
‘Boss? You OK?’
Phil took a deep breath, another. Waited until he trusted himself to speak.
‘I’m fine, Mickey, fine.’ He put the panic attack to the back of his mind, along with the cage and the niggling, unreachable thoughts it had triggered. ‘Come on. We’ve got work to do.’
8
Donna felt an insistent prodding in her shoulder. She ignored it, turned over, hoping it would stop.
It didn’t.
‘Donna… ’
The prodding again. More insistent this time, harder. The voice saying her name louder. ‘Donna… ’
Donna opened her eyes. Closed them again. ‘Just a few more minutes, Ben. Let Auntie Donna sleep.’ Christ, listen to her. Auntie Donna. Must be desperate.
She closed her eyes, hoped he would do as he was told. Knew he wouldn’t.
‘’M hungry… ’
Anger coursed through Donna Warren’s body. Her first response was to lash out with a fist, smack this kid square in the face, remind him that life wasn’t fucking fair and that just because he was hungry didn’t mean he was going to get fed. Who did he think she was? His mother, for Christ’s sake?
She closed her eyes tight, knowing at the same time that he wasn’t going to be fooled by that.
Her arm snaked slowly out from under her, patted the other side of the bed. ‘Where’s your mother?’ Donna’s voice sounded slurred, like an old-school VHS tape at the wrong speed.
But Ben understood. ‘Don’ know… Get up. ’M hungry… ’
Donna sighed. No good. She would have to get up. The anger subsided. Poor little bastard. Wasn’t his fault his mother hadn’t come home last night. No, but when she did turn up, Donna would be so fucking angry with her… Leaving her alone with her kid like that. Saying she wouldn’t be long.
She swung out of bed, planted her feet on the floor. The cold penetrated her numbness. She gave a small shiver. Her head spun. Too much booze the night before. Cider and vodka cocktails. Home-made. With blackcurrant. Had seemed like a good idea at the time, especially with Bench and Tommer turning up, supplying the weed and the charlie. Faith should have been there. Didn’t know what she had missed. And she could have helped sort them both out, instead of getting all secretive on her and going out. As it was, Donna did the two of them herself. The drugs and booze needed paying for. Fair’s fair. She didn’t mind. Much.
She looked at Ben, standing there in his washed-out Spider-Man pyjamas, knowing he wasn’t the first kid to have worn them. ‘All right… ’ She pulled her dressing gown around her. ‘I’m comin’… ’
By the time she made her way downstairs, bones creaking like a woman at least ten, if not twenty, years older than the thirty-two she was, Ben was already down there. He’d probably been through the kitchen cupboards, seen what was there, helped himself, even. And he still wanted her to cook for him. Little bastard.
She stopped in the living room, looked at the mess from the previous night. Just like them. Turn up, trash the house, piss off. But she couldn’t complain. She had helped them do it. And the place wasn’t exactly tidy to begin with.
She reached the kitchen, looked in the fridge, found some bacon.
‘You wanna bacon sandwich?’
Sitting at the table expectantly, Ben’s eyes lit up. ‘Yeah… ’
‘Well make me one an’ all.’
Ben frowned as Donna laughed at her own joke. ‘Put the kettle on. D’you know how to do that?’
He nodded, took the kettle to the sink, filled it with water, crossed back to the counter, flicked the switch.
‘Good lad.’
He smiled, enjoying the praise.
Donna put the pan on the gas, started to cook the bacon.
‘Some Coke in the fridge. Get yourself some.’
Ben did. Donna went back to cooking. He wasn’t a bad kid. She had known worse. She had
She served up the bacon sandwiches, slathering margarine and ketchup on Ben’s white bread first. He wolfed his down. Donna lit a fag to accompany hers. Rubbed her eyes.
‘You got to go to school today?’ she said to the boy.
He shrugged, nodded. ‘S’posed to.’
Christ, what an upheaval. Donna’s head was ringing. The sandwich and the fag hadn’t helped. ‘Well you’ve got a day off today.’
Ben smiled.
Sooner Faith came back, sooner she could go back to bed. Once she’d given her a bollocking, of course. Made sure she knew she owed Donna for this.
She sipped her tea, dragged smoke deep within her lungs. Started to feel human again.
Unaware that Faith wouldn’t be coming back.
Unaware of the large black car sitting outside her house.
Waiting.
9
‘So… let me get this straight. He was found in a cage?’
DC Anni Hepburn stared straight at the bed, nodded.
‘Of bones?’
Anni nodded again.
Marina Esposito looked at the woman speaking, gauging her response to the words. Hoping it tallied with her own.
‘My God… ’
It did.
The child was lying on the bed before them. An undernourished, skeletal frame, his closed eyes black-rimmed, haunted-looking. He carried an ingrained residue of filth in his skin and hair. His already pale skin was bone-white where a patch on his arm had been swabbed clean and a feeding drip inserted. His broken fingers had been temporarily splinted and set. He was sleeping, heavily sedated, in the private hospital room. The lights had been taken right down so as not to sear his eyes when he woke up. The machines and monitors provided the only illumination.
Beyond formal questions of process and procedure, Marina didn’t know what to think. Didn’t want to allow
