The two police officers reached Matt and fell on him. His hands were twisted behind his back and cuffed. He heard the click of the metal and knew there was nothing he could do. Then he was jerked off his feet and dragged, silent and unresisting, out into the night.
BROKEN GLASS
They took Matt to a building that wasn’t a prison and wasn’t a hospital but was something in between. The car drove into a rectangular, tarmac-covered area with high walls all around. As they drew to a halt, a steel door slid across, blocking the way out. The door closed with a loud, electric buzz. Matt heard the locks engage. They seemed to echo inside his head. He wondered if he would ever see the world on the other side of the door again.
“Out!” The voice didn’t seem to belong to anyone. It told him what to do and he obeyed. It was drizzling and for a few moments he felt the cold water against his face and was almost grateful for it. He wanted to wash. He could still feel the blood on his hands, behind his back. It had dried and gone sticky.
They passed through a set of double doors into a corridor with harsh lighting, tiles, the smell of urine and disinfectant. People in uniforms passed him by. Two policemen, then a nurse. Matt was still handcuffed. He had seen people being arrested on television but he had never realized what it really felt like, to have his freedom taken away like this. He could feel his arms, pinned behind his back. He was utterly defenceless.
The two policemen stopped in front of a desk, where a third man in a blue jersey made some entries in a book. He asked a few questions but Matt didn’t understand what he was saying. He could see the man’s mouth moving. He heard the words. But they seemed far away and made no sense.
Then he was on the move again, escorted into a lift that needed a key to be operated. He was taken up to the second floor and down another corridor. Matt kept his head bowed, his eyes fixed on his feet. He didn’t want to look around him. He didn’t want to know where he was.
They stopped again in an open-plan area, a meeting place of several corridors, painted green, with police information posters on the walls. There was an office with a window that had been wired off and in front of it a table with a computer and two chairs. They went in. The handcuffs were unlocked and he brought his arms forward with a sense of relief. His shoulders were aching.
“Sit down,” one of the policemen said.
Matt did as he was told.
About five minutes passed. Then a door opened and a man in a suit and a brightly coloured open-neck shirt appeared. He was black, with a slim figure and kind, intelligent eyes. He looked a bit more friendly than the others and he was also younger. Matt didn’t think he could be out of his twenties.
“My name is Detective Superintendent Mallory,” he said. He had a pleasant, cultivated voice. Like a newsreader on TV. “Are you all right?”
“I’m all right.” Matt was surprised by the question.
Mallory had sat down opposite him at the table. He pressed a few keys on the computer. “What’s your name?” he asked.
“Matt.”
Mallory’s fingers hovered over the keyboard. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to tell me your full name. I need it for the report.”
Matt hesitated. But he knew he had to co-operate. “Matthew Freeman,” he said.
The detective tapped in the letters and pressed ENTER, then watched as a dozen lines of information scrolled up on the screen. “You seem to have made quite a name for yourself,” Mallory said. “You live at 27 Eastfield Terrace?”
“Yes.” Matt nodded.
“With a guardian. A Ms Davis?”
“She’s my aunt.”
“You’re fourteen.”
“Yes.”
Mallory looked up from the computer screen. “You’re in a lot of trouble,” he said.
Matt took a breath. “I know.” He was almost afraid to ask, but he still had to know. “Is he dead?”
“The guard you stabbed has a name – Mark Adams. He’s married with two kids.” Mallory couldn’t conceal his anger. “Right now he’s in hospital. He’s going to be there for a while. But he won’t die.”
“I didn’t stab him,” Matt said. “I didn’t know anyone was going to get hurt. That wasn’t the idea.”
“That’s not what your friend Kelvin told us. He said it was your knife and your plan, and it was you who panicked when you were caught.”
“He’s lying.”
Mallory sighed. “I know. I’ve already spoken to the guard and he’s told us what happened. He heard the two of you argue and he knows that you wanted to stay. But you’re still responsible, Matthew. I have to tell you that you’re going to be charged as an accessory. Do you know what that means?”
“Are you going to send me to prison?”
“You’re fourteen. You’re too young for prison. But it’s quite possible you could be facing a custodial sentence.” Mallory stopped. He had seen dozens of kids in this room. Many of them had been thugs, ranging from openly defiant to snivelling and pathetic. But he was puzzled by the quiet, good-looking boy who sat opposite him now. Matt was somehow different and Mallory found himself wondering what had brought him here. “Look, it’s too late to talk about this now,” he said. “Are you hungry?”
Matt shook his head.
“Is there anything you need?”
“No.”
“Try not to be too scared. We’ll look after you tonight, and tomorrow morning we’ll try to make sense of all this. Right now, you’d better get out of those clothes. I’m afraid someone will have to stay with you while you undress – your clothes are evidence. You can have a shower, and then a doctor will look at you.”
“I’m not sick. I don’t need a doctor.”
“It’s just routine. He’ll give you a quick examination and maybe something to help you sleep.” Mallory glanced at one of the policemen. “All right.”
Matt stood up. “Will you tell him I’m sorry,” he said. “The security guard. Mark Adams. I know it doesn’t make any difference and you probably don’t believe me anyway. But I am.”
Mallory nodded. The policeman took Matt’s arm and led him back down the corridor.
He was taken to a changing room – bare wooden benches and white tiles. His clothes went into a plastic bag that was stapled shut and labelled. Then he showered. He had no privacy, just as he had been warned. There was a policeman in the room with him the whole time but he still managed to enjoy the shower; the rush of water, scalding hot, shuddering down on his head and his shoulders, washing away the blood and the horror of the last hours. It was over all too quickly. He dried himself, then pulled on a grey T-shirt and undershorts that had been laundered and pressed as flat as paper. Finally, he was taken to a room which could have been a ward in a hospital, with four metal beds, four identical tables, and nothing else. The room felt as if it had been cleaned fifty times. Even the air felt clean. It seemed that he was the only occupant.
He climbed into bed, and before any doctor could arrive he was asleep. Sleep came as quickly as a train in a tunnel. He simply lay back and kept on falling.
Meanwhile, in a room downstairs, Stephen Mallory was sitting opposite a crumpled, sullen-looking woman who was managing both to scowl and to yawn at the same time. The woman was Gwenda Davis, Matt’s aunt and legal guardian. She was short and drab, with mousey hair and a pinched, forgettable face. She wore no make-up and there were heavy bags under her eyes. She was dressed in an old, shapeless coat. It might have been expensive once but now it was frayed at the edges. Like the woman who was wearing it, Mallory thought. He supposed that she was about forty-five. She seemed nervous, as if it was she, not her nephew, who had been accused of something.
“So where is he?” Gwenda asked. She had a thin, whiny voice that made every question sound like a
