Dead Tomorrow by Peter James Page B

if they expected her to have brought something – food, or perhaps news – but she had brought nothing out of the dark, wet night.
    ‘Have you found anywhere new to sleep?’ she asked.
    Tavian’s smile momentarily faded and he shook his head forlornly. ‘No, and the police are worse recently. They are hitting us all the time, moving us on. Sometimes, if they have nothing else to do, they follow us through the night.’
    ‘The ones who tried to take the baby?’
    He shook his head, extracted a bent cigarette stub from a box and lit it, rocking the baby gently with his free arm. ‘Not them, no. They called someone, some special unit.’
    ‘I heard of a good place, where there is space – along by the heating pipe,’ Simona said.
    He shrugged indifferently. ‘We’re OK. We are managing.’
    She never really understood this group. They were no different from herself and they had no more than she had. In some ways she was better off, because she at least had a place to go to that was her home. These people were completely nomadic. They slept wherever they could – in alleys, in the shelter of shop-front porches, or out in the open, huddled together for warmth. They knew about the heating pipes, but they never went to them. She did not understand that, but there was a lot about the people she met that she did not understand.
    Like the man approaching them now, laden with carrier bags. The man she had seen at the confectionery stall. He was middle-aged, with a slightly smug smile that made Simona instantly wary of him.
    ‘You look hungry, so I bought you some food,’ he said, and beamed enthusiastically, holding the bags out.
    Suddenly they were all pushing past her, jostling, grabbing at the bags. The man stood there releasing them contentedly. He was of stocky build, with a pleasant, cultured-looking face and well-groomed hair. His open-neck white shirt, his brown jacket, his dark blue trousers and his shiny shoes all looked expensive, but she wondered why, on a night like this, he was not wearing a coat – he could clearly afford one.
    Just one bag he held back, waiting until the rush had subsided and people had retreated, each inspecting their sudden windfall, and then he handed it to Simona. She peered inside at a treasure trove of sweets and biscuits.
    ‘Please,’ he said, ‘help yourself. Take everything. It’s yours!’ He was looking at her intently.
    She dug her hand in, took out a Mars bar, unwrapped and bit into it greedily. It tasted so good. Incredible! She bit some more, then more still, as if afraid someone would snatch it from her, cramming the last of it into her mouth until it was packed so full she could barely chew. Then she dug her hand into the bag again and took out a chocolate-coated biscuit, which she began to unwrap.
    Suddenly there was a commotion. She felt a painful thud on her shoulder and cried out in shock, turning round, her bag falling to the floor. A cop was standing behind her, black truncheon raised, a leer of hatred on his face, about to strike her again. She put her hands up and felt a blow on her wrist so hard and painful she was sure he had broken it. He was raising his arm to strike again.
    There were police all around them. Seven or eight of them, maybe more.
    She heard a loud crack and saw Tavian fall over.
    Cici screamed, ‘My baby, my baby!’
    Simona saw a truncheon strike Cici full in the mouth, busting her gums open and splintering her teeth.
    Truncheon blows were hailing down on them all.
    Suddenly she felt her hand being gripped and was jerked backwards, clear of the police. As she turned, she saw it was the man who had bought the sweets. A tall, bony cop with a small, rat-like mouth, brandishing his truncheon as if it was going to hit them both, shouted out something. The man dug his hand into his jacket pocket and produced a cluster of banknotes.
    The cop took the money and waved them away, then turned his attention back to the mob, raising his truncheon and