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  ‘Surely there are others who can give evidence against him? Do you really need Tasha?’

  ‘There are plenty of people that could. But they won’t. We caught several members of the gang that night. but none of them would risk going against their enforcer. They know they’d be dead within hours. McGuinness has enough contacts outside to see to that. Rory Slater is petrified of saying a word about anything in case he gives something away that gets him killed. It’s amazing to watch some of these tough guys crumble when they think somebody bigger and uglier can get to them.’

  ‘What about his wife, or can’t she be forced to give evidence?’

  ‘We can’t compel her. She’s already been found guilty of so many crimes – don’t forget the under-aged prostitution on top of Ollie’s kidnap. She’s been given a hefty prison sentence, which is likely to be longer than Finn’s as things stand. That’s why we have to find Tasha.’

  Emma shook her head in disgust at the McGuinness pair and started to get plates and cutlery ready.

  ‘What else did Tasha say?’ Tom asked. ‘Did you manage to persuade her to come home?’

  Emma laughed, but without a trace of amusement.

  ‘She thinks you’re going to arrest her. I don’t think she has any idea what’s happened at all. She asked if David was putting up the reward, but she discounted that fairly quickly based on his previous performance. She obviously doesn’t know he’s dead, and I didn’t want to tell her on the phone.’

  Emma’s sadness for Tasha was reflected in Tom’s expression.

  ‘Was there anything she said that would help us find her? Where was she calling from?’

  Emma handed over a piece of paper with the call box number on. ‘She won’t have used a phone close to where she’s living, though. She’s too smart for that. At least we know she’s in Manchester – and somewhere fairly central – but I know that’s a lot of ground to cover.’

  Tom texted the phone number through to Becky to pass to the team looking for Tasha.

  ‘She thinks the reward that’s being offered is putting her in danger,’ Emma said as she put a plate of hot food in front of Tom.

  ‘She’s probably right – but if the reward has come from McGuinness she’s already in danger. If she calls again, you have to make her understand that. We can try making it known on the streets that she’s not in any trouble with the police, but I don’t know if she’ll believe that.’

  Emma debated whether to tell him the rest. If, by drawing attention to Tasha, she was really putting the girl in danger, she needed to know what to do. She took a mouthful of the stew, barely tasting it, and chewed for a moment.

  ‘Tasha’s wasn’t the only call I received.’

  Tom continued to eat, but he raised his eyes to hers, and she could see he was listening to every word as she recounted the threats made by the young-sounding man on the phone.

  ‘But it’s just words, Tom,’ she concluded. ‘If Tasha gets back to us, we can make sure she’s safe, can’t we?’

  Tom put down his fork.

  ‘And how, precisely, do you think we’re going to do that, Emma? You know what happened here, in this very kitchen.’

  Emma was shocked that he would mention it. Did he think she ever forgot that her husband had died on her kitchen floor, beaten to a pulp by Finn McGuinness’s men?

  ‘Don’t look like that,’ he said. ‘I’m being tough because you’ve got to be tough. We could make this place like Fort Knox, but you’ve got to go out some time. If for any reason Tasha comes back, you call me. Don’t wait – not even for five minutes. Have you got that, Emma, because this isn’t a game. You’re not only putting yourself and Tasha in danger. There’s Ollie too.’

  Emma had been so sure it would all be fine and that they just needed Tasha to come home. She pushed the food away from her, the dark red sauce of the stew suddenly looking like nothing more than a pool of blood.

  10

  With each day that passes, I’ve been starting to feel more frightened. I thought it would work the other way round – that each day nobody comes looking for me, I’ll get more confident. It hasn’t worked like that. It’s three days since I phoned Emma. The lump on Andy’s head has gone down, and we’re getting used to our new home. I think I like it better than the tunnel, although there are more rats, and I don’t like them much.

  Andy went out today on what he called a special mission. I don’t like him going out alone. I’m terrified that something will happen to him, or that he’ll realise that I’m a danger to him and move off somewhere else. He was gone all day, but he’s back now, thank goodness. I want to ask him where he’s been, but I don’t really have the right to do that. I learned a long time ago never to ask questions.

  ‘What are you looking at me like that for?’ he asks, and then he smiles. ‘Ah – I get it. You thought I was going to run out on you, didn’t you?’

  I don’t answer.

  ‘Don’t be so bloody soft, Harry. That’s not going to happen. But there’s always a chance that something might go wrong – like it nearly did the other night. Kids like me get beaten up all the time – and if that happens, you’re going to have to get yourself to somewhere safe. You can’t cope on your own.’

  My chin goes up and my lips tighten. It’s what Rory used to call my obstinate face, just before he slapped the expression off it.

  Andy pushes an old, used brown envelope into my hands.

  ‘This is for you,’ he says. ‘Put it somewhere really safe – where nobody will look. Okay?’

  I hold the envelope out and start to open it.

  ‘No, don’t look,’ he says. ‘Not until you need to.’

  I don’t know what he means.

  ‘It’s your escape fund,’ he tells me. ‘If anything bad happens and you need to get away, you’ve got to go to Emma, whether you like it or not. I’m going to try to keep you safe, but if I screw up, this is everything you’ll need to get to her.’

  I feel my mouth drop open and I don’t know what to say. So I say nothing and fight hard not to cry. I don’t know why he is so good to me – I’m sure I don’t deserve it.

  Andy looks down at his hands, giving me a moment. He chooses to talk over my confusion.

  ‘I’ve read the stuff on those flyers. I’ve listened to Emma. I don’t think she would bring her wee bairn out to try to find you unless she really cares. She wants you to go home to her, and I’m thinking you should.’

  ‘I’m not leaving you, Andy. So you can forget it.’ I try to give him back the envelope.

  ‘Let’s just say that if I’m not around – and I’m not going to walk out on you, so don’t go pulling that face – but if you’re on your own for any reason you have to promise me that you’ll go to Emma.’

  He can see me looking at him, my face scrunched up in a puzzled frown. He looks down at the ground, and I can’t see his eyes.

  ‘I haven’t always got things right in the past,’ he says. ‘I need to get it right this time – with you.’ He looks up – straight at me. ‘Don’t ask me to explain.’

  I don’t know what to say but I know I can’t force him to tell me. I want to believe he’s right about Emma, though – that she really does want me back. But for the moment I don’t have to decide because I’ve still got Andy.

  ‘I know where Emma lives now,’ Andy says, as if his last words had never been spoken. ‘I’ve worked out a couple of different ways you can get there when you need to. It’s all in the envelope – trains, buses, a bit of cash for the fares and that. Couldn’t run to a taxi.’ He looks up with a sideways grin.

  I’m still staring at the envelope.

  ‘Put it away, now. Stick it down your pants or something.’

  I don’t ask where he’s got the money from, because I know.

  When we were first together we agreed we would never beg in the streets. I wouldn’t do it because I didn’t want to be recognised, but Andy wouldn’t do it because he was ashamed. Ashamed of the life he had neve
r wanted to live; ashamed of the person he had become – stealing to eat, sheltering in damp, miserable tunnels. I don’t know much, but I do know that this isn’t the life he wants.

  I know he won’t have nicked the money. That isn’t his thing. We only ever steal what we need – enough to keep us alive. So he must have begged, and I know exactly what he would have done. He would have rolled up his sleeves, so that people could see his deformed arm, and he would have held it so that it looked even worse. He knew how to dislocate his shoulder – he said it was because it had been done so many times that it popped in and out easy as anything – and it made his arm hang at a really odd angle. He would have sat outside the posh shops, looking like a pathetic, skinny, injured kid so people would feel sorry for him. I know how much he hates pity, but he’s done it for me.

  I want to kiss him, but I know he wouldn’t like that. At least, I don’t think he would.

  ’Now,’ he says. ‘I’m going to have to own up to saving some of the money for a special treat tonight.’

  He looks at me, and he makes me wait.

  ‘We’re going to have chips!’

  I can’t speak because I can taste the chips, dripping with vinegar and loads of salt. I bet we can get some free ketchup too – perhaps take a few extra sachets to put on sandwiches – especially if we end up with those falafel things again. My mouth is watering.

  ‘Where are we going?’ I ask.

  ‘We’re going to go up the back way, stick to the alleys as far as we can. We’ll have to come out when we get to Cross Street, but it will be busy if we time it right. There’s something on at the theatre, and there were loads of people around earlier. If we wait until they all come out, they’ll be milling around going to restaurants and stuff. Best place to hide is in a crowd.’

  I’m not sure if I can wait that long, but for a treat like a bag of chips between us I can ignore the angry noises my belly is making.

  *

  It was worth the wait.

  We barely make it out of the shop before we’re digging into the chips, each of us making sure that in our excitement we don’t take more than the other is getting. We walk back towards Albert Square, heads down over the shared packet, hoovering up every last morsel. The guy in the shop gave us some scraps too, so we’re in heaven.

  When we’ve finished we dodge down some of the quieter streets and make our way back to our pitch, our bellies for once feeling full. The empty chip paper gets thrown in the first bin we see, but only after I’ve licked the salty, vinegary mess off it.

  Once we get off the main road and there’s nobody else about, Andy starts mimicking some of the posh people in the chippy who had behaved as if going into a place like that was a special treat – an experience to share with their friends as they tried to live like normal people. I tell Andy that I bet they take the chips home to eat off a plate, rather than be seen eating from a bag in the street. By then, the chips will be cold, pale and soggy. What a waste.

  He carries on messing about, making me smile, and I run on ahead a bit, pretending I want nothing to do with him. He’s doing a posh person walk and shouting something silly about chipped potatoes. I pretend to ignore him for a minute then, laughing, I spin round to say something funny about the ‘battaar’ on the fish, but the words freeze in my throat.

  The end of the alley is lit by the bright lights of central Manchester, but a dark shadow is standing at the entrance, top heavy, bowed legs planted firmly apart, arms slightly lifted from his side. I know the shape. I recognise it.

  ‘Andy!’ I scream. For a moment I’m frozen to the spot, terrified of what might be about to happen. But Andy’s in danger, and within seconds I’m running back towards him.

  He swivels his neck to look behind him and he sees the man too. He’s a lot closer than I am. He spins back towards me.

  ‘Run – Tasha – run,’ he shouts. It’s the first time he has ever called me by my name.

  I don’t want to run – I don’t want to leave him.

  ‘Go,’ he yells.

  I hesitate for just a second, and the man rushes towards Andy, arms out to push him over. It’s not Andy he wants, it’s me.

  But Andy’s having none of it. He moves into the middle of the unlit alley, his skinny frame looking frail and defenceless in the shadows. He’s not going to let the guy get past, and I know he wants me to escape.

  I turn and run as fast as I can, down the alley and into the pedestrian street beyond. There’s a car park just off the street, and I sneak in and crouch down between the cars, watching and waiting for the man to come out of the alley after me, hoping that Andy has just slowed him down a bit and maybe got knocked over into the bargain.

  I think I hear a scream, but I don’t know where it’s coming from. The alley? Manchester’s noisy at this time of night, and it might be someone screaming with laughter. A lot of girls seem to scream for no reason that I can see. Please God, don’t let it be Andy. Don’t let him be hurt.

  I know that’s wishful thinking.

  The minutes pass, time dragging. I’m just beginning to think that the man has gone back the way he came when he appears from the alley and stands still, weighing up the scene. He’s not given up on me, but he can’t see me where I’m hiding, and a few people give him an odd look. I can see he’s covered in something. Something dark. I know it must be blood, and hope it’s his, from a busted nose, or something.

  Andy.

  The man looks around a bit, but he looks like he’s getting worried about the attention, so he clears off, trying to look as if he hasn’t got a care in the world. I wait just seconds. I need to get to Andy.

  I leap up from behind the car and set off at a run, back down the alley. I can’t see him anywhere. Perhaps he’s escaped.

  Then I see a foot sticking out from the back doorway of an old building. I don’t have to guess twice as I sprint up the alley.

  ‘Andy!’ I scream, falling to my knees by his side. His hands are holding his stomach, and he’s bleeding – the warm, sticky blood oozing between his fingers. He’s been stabbed. I touch his belly, feeling the hot, sticky fluid, and whisper his name, stroking his hair, getting blood on his face.

  He can’t hear me. I kiss his cheeks, his forehead, his lips, and I cry, my tears mingling with the blood.

  His eyes flutter open, and he tries to smile. He’s not dead, but I know he soon will be.

  ‘Stay there,’ I say foolishly. ‘I’m going to get help.’

  I rush out onto the main road, shouting for help.

  ‘Please – somebody help me. There’s a boy injured down here. Call an ambulance.’

  One or two people look at me, but most hurry by, giving me a wide berth. A filthy kid, now covered in blood, asking for help? Not on your life, I can hear them thinking.

  I need to act quickly.

  A man and his wife are walking towards me, arms linked, laughing about something. They’re having a great time, and I’m about to ruin their evening. She’s swinging an expensive-looking handbag from one hand. I wait for them to get close, and then I charge the woman, ripping the handbag from her arm.

  She screams, and the man shouts. I’m sure he will chase me – he has to, or it will have been for nothing – but just to make sure, I turn and wave the handbag backwards and forwards, taunting him, whispering under my breath, ‘Follow me. Follow me.’

  He sets off towards me, and I run. Fast enough to keep ahead, but slow enough that he won’t give up the chase. At least, not yet. He mustn’t give up.

  I draw level with the doorway where Andy is lying, and I chuck the handbag in. It lands right by Andy’s head.

  The man will go to get the bag. He’s bound to. Then please God he’ll do the right thing.

  ‘Call an ambulance,’ I yell at the man, turning round to sprint for my life.

  11

  The past twelve hours have been a nightmare. I don’t know what’s happened to Andy, and it’s tearing me in pieces. I can only think he must have die
d, because there was so much blood. He didn’t deserve that. He didn’t deserve any of it.

  I keep thinking back to the moment I threw the bag in the doorway. Andy didn’t move, but he must have felt it land. I didn’t have time to check, though, because the man was nearly on me. I stopped when I got to the corner. He had given up chasing me by then, and others were gathering. His wife had called for help, and people had obviously decided that she was a more likely person in need than I had been, although I’d asked for exactly the same thing.

  I had intended to wait, to see if an ambulance would come. But one of the helpers saw me, and he started to run down the alley towards me. They probably thought I did it – that I had stabbed Andy.

  He saved my life, and I don’t even know if he’s dead. He didn’t need to do that for me. He should have run.

  Once I knew I was safe, I pulled the envelope out of my pocket. More than ever, I wished I had pushed Andy to tell me why he was doing all this for me. Nobody had ever looked after me like he had – at least, not since my mum died.

  The instructions Andy had written for me were incredible. He said I should get the train from Piccadilly to Stockport. There are trains all the time, he had written, but he’d also put the time of the last train, so I walked there as quickly as I could, keeping to main roads this time. If anybody was looking for me, they wouldn’t attack me on a busy street and even if they followed me I was only going to the station and not to our pitch, where I would be easy meat. I was never going back there. There wasn’t anything to take anyway. I didn’t exactly have a wardrobe full of clothes.

  I went into the toilet at the station and managed to get most of the blood off my hands and my cheeks from when I’d kissed Andy. I stared at my lips in the mirror, and saw the bottom one start to turn down. My nose was burning and my eyes stinging. I didn’t have time to cry, though. If I did, everything that Andy had done would be wasted. I whipped my top off and put it on back to front. My hoody kept the blood-spattered back covered.