Dishonour by Helen Black Page B

he had time to input their details on the police computer. These kids didn’t go to school, would never work, might be dead before they were thirty. Christ, it was all so depressing.
    He pushed on to the address Mara had given him. Ryan Sanders lived in the very heart of this cesspit.
    As Jack entered the walkway to Ryan’s floor he put his hand over his mouth to avoid the stench. Even through the thick rubber soles of his boots he could feel the sticky mess of vomit. How could people live like this?
    Of course, Jack knew the answer: they had no fecking choice. And for kids like Ryan, who grew up thinking this was perfectly normal, there was no reason to change it.
    But Ryan could change things—for himself, at least.He had a talent and, in Mara, someone who cared enough to watch out for him. That was far more than most. Though the boy probably couldn’t see it, he was bloody lucky.
    Jack knocked on the door and waited. When no one answered he knocked again. He could hear muffled sounds from within, someone moving around. Still no answer.
    Jack bent to the letter box and peered inside.
    ‘Mrs Sanders,’ he called, ‘it’s the police.’
    He heard an exchange of voices in a distant room, one definitely male and angry.
    ‘Come to the door, Mrs Sanders,’ Jack shouted.
    At last he saw a slight figure shuffle towards him. The door was unbolted in almost slow motion and at last it was pulled ajar.
    The woman standing in the sliver of light was painfully thin, her skeleton protruding violently through her clothes. She gripped the side of the door with shockingly white fingers, her nails ragged and bloody.
    ‘Mrs Sanders?’ Jack asked.
    The woman didn’t look at him, but nodded.
    ‘Can I come in?’ he asked.
    ‘Why?’ Her voice was tiny, childlike.
    ‘I’d like a word with you about Ryan.’
    Mrs Sanders threw a nervous glance over her shoulder.
    ‘Give me a second,’ she whispered, and shut the door.
    Jack waited outside the door, listening to another exchange, the male’s voice becoming increasingly angry. When the door finally reopened Mrs Sanders was visibly shaking and her son stood behind her, his face a study in fury.
    ‘Hello, Ryan,’ said Jack. ‘We met at school, remember?’
    Ryan glowered at Jack. ‘I ain’t got Alzheimer’s.’
    ‘He wants to come in,’ said Mrs Sanders.
    ‘Has he got a warrant?’ asked Ryan.
    Mrs Sanders’ fingers flew to her mouth. ‘I didn’t ask him.’
    ‘How many times have I told you?’ Ryan shouted. ‘Do not let them in without a warrant.’
    Mrs Sanders ran her cuticle across her front teeth. It was so raw Jack was certain it must hurt.
    ‘So,’ Ryan spat at Jack, ‘have you got a warrant?’
    Jack ignored him and smiled gently at Mrs Sanders. ‘I just want a chat.’
    ‘Tell him, Mum,’ said Ryan.
    Mrs Sanders bit the ragged skin until a fresh drop of blood rose like a crimson flower.
    ‘Tell him,’ repeated Ryan.
    ‘You’re not welcome here,’ she said, and slammed the door in Jack’s face.
    For a second Jack remained outside the flat. He wasn’t shocked. Coppers were well used to a less than enthusiastic welcome, especially on estates like the Clayhill, but usually the venom came in equal measure from adults and children alike. Mrs Sanders hadn’t reacted like that.
    He put his ear to the door, pretty sure he could hear crying.
    Mrs Sanders wouldn’t be the first parent to be afraid of her teenage son.
    Aasha puts up her hand and asks to be excused. This is the third time she’s pretended she needs the toilet soshe can check the art rooms on the way. She scuttles through the corridor but Ryan is nowhere to be seen.
    As soon as the bell goes for break she grabs her phone and checks her messages.
    ‘I don’t know why you’re so stressed.’ Lailla applies a fresh coat of mascara to her long lashes. ‘That boy is always bunking off.’
    True enough, Ryan has hardly done a full week all term.
    ‘I just want to know he’s all right,’