around her shoulder.
“I’m sorry, darling, but we
couldn’t bring anything that could be traced, I told you that.”
“I know, but I could use it to
just play games,” Alana pouted, bottom lip thrust out like a diving board.
Levine sighed. He had been
through this a dozen times, explaining how SIM cards could be tracked even when
the phone was not in use, and that even without the card it might be possible
for those with the right technology to locate the device.
“I’ll make it up to you when
this is all over, I promise.”
“But when will that be?”
She asked.
Carl Levine didn’t have an
answer to that one. A year earlier he had a schedule to keep to, but this
time it was simply a case of waiting to hear from his friends. He didn’t
have any way of communicating with the outside world, and all the money they
had was being spent on food and fuel. While they still had a few hundred
pounds between them, the money wasn’t going to last forever. It was a
blessing that the caravan they were staying in was owned outright by Tom Gray’s
solicitor and the ground rent was being paid by direct debit, otherwise their finances would be stretched even further.
“Hopefully not too long,” Levine
said.
“Is it going to be like last
time, with the reporters hanging round the house and school?”
Levine promised her that it
wouldn’t be a repeat of the previous year, when the press had camped outside
their house for a fortnight in the hope of a story. They had even tried
to interview his daughter as she entered the school grounds, and the following
day he had escorted her to the entrance of the school building. On
leaving the playground he’d stopped to speak to the press, but not to give then
the story they’d hoped for. Reading from a prepared statement, he’d given
them what he considered their final warning.
“Yesterday, several members of
the press tried to manhandle and harass my daughter into giving them an
interview, something I, as her father, find deeply offensive. I reported
this matter to the police and asked them to provide her with an escort every
day but they say they don’t have the resources, despite my insisting that
adults were laying their hands on my vulnerable child.
“As the police refuse to do
anything about this situation, I will be forced to take the matter into my own
hands should anyone try to interfere with my daughter on her way to or from
school, using all force necessary to protect my child.”
Levine smiled as he remembered
that statement going out on all the news channels, with commentators asking why
the police were leaving a twelve-year-old girl to the mercy of a mob of
reporters, and the anchors quick to point out that none of the reporters worked
for their particular franchise. Within a few hours a police escort was
arranged for the next few days until the media eventually gave up their
efforts.
“I’m sure it won’t be like last
time,” he told her, even though he himself had no idea how it was going to play
out. He kissed his daughter on the head and went back to his kitchen
duties.
“I think she’s missing her
friends,” his wife said, and Levine could quite understand. It wasn’t
easy for him, sharing a small space with not only his wife and daughter, but
Jeff Campbell and his wife, too. For Alana, it must be doubly difficult,
especially with no company her own age to keep her occupied.
He once again hoped that
whatever was happening, it would be over soon, for his daughter’s sake if
nothing else. When the call had come, the last thing on his mind had been
creature comforts, and he certainly hadn’t been expecting to be holed up in
this tiny box for more than a couple of days. It was now approaching two
weeks, and he still no idea why they had been told to go into hiding.
Campbell was just as concerned,
highlighting the fact that during their enforced holiday they hadn’t been
mentioned on the BBC news channel. That
“I’m sorry, darling, but we
couldn’t bring anything that could be traced, I told you that.”
“I know, but I could use it to
just play games,” Alana pouted, bottom lip thrust out like a diving board.
Levine sighed. He had been
through this a dozen times, explaining how SIM cards could be tracked even when
the phone was not in use, and that even without the card it might be possible
for those with the right technology to locate the device.
“I’ll make it up to you when
this is all over, I promise.”
“But when will that be?”
She asked.
Carl Levine didn’t have an
answer to that one. A year earlier he had a schedule to keep to, but this
time it was simply a case of waiting to hear from his friends. He didn’t
have any way of communicating with the outside world, and all the money they
had was being spent on food and fuel. While they still had a few hundred
pounds between them, the money wasn’t going to last forever. It was a
blessing that the caravan they were staying in was owned outright by Tom Gray’s
solicitor and the ground rent was being paid by direct debit, otherwise their finances would be stretched even further.
“Hopefully not too long,” Levine
said.
“Is it going to be like last
time, with the reporters hanging round the house and school?”
Levine promised her that it
wouldn’t be a repeat of the previous year, when the press had camped outside
their house for a fortnight in the hope of a story. They had even tried
to interview his daughter as she entered the school grounds, and the following
day he had escorted her to the entrance of the school building. On
leaving the playground he’d stopped to speak to the press, but not to give then
the story they’d hoped for. Reading from a prepared statement, he’d given
them what he considered their final warning.
“Yesterday, several members of
the press tried to manhandle and harass my daughter into giving them an
interview, something I, as her father, find deeply offensive. I reported
this matter to the police and asked them to provide her with an escort every
day but they say they don’t have the resources, despite my insisting that
adults were laying their hands on my vulnerable child.
“As the police refuse to do
anything about this situation, I will be forced to take the matter into my own
hands should anyone try to interfere with my daughter on her way to or from
school, using all force necessary to protect my child.”
Levine smiled as he remembered
that statement going out on all the news channels, with commentators asking why
the police were leaving a twelve-year-old girl to the mercy of a mob of
reporters, and the anchors quick to point out that none of the reporters worked
for their particular franchise. Within a few hours a police escort was
arranged for the next few days until the media eventually gave up their
efforts.
“I’m sure it won’t be like last
time,” he told her, even though he himself had no idea how it was going to play
out. He kissed his daughter on the head and went back to his kitchen
duties.
“I think she’s missing her
friends,” his wife said, and Levine could quite understand. It wasn’t
easy for him, sharing a small space with not only his wife and daughter, but
Jeff Campbell and his wife, too. For Alana, it must be doubly difficult,
especially with no company her own age to keep her occupied.
He once again hoped that
whatever was happening, it would be over soon, for his daughter’s sake if
nothing else. When the call had come, the last thing on his mind had been
creature comforts, and he certainly hadn’t been expecting to be holed up in
this tiny box for more than a couple of days. It was now approaching two
weeks, and he still no idea why they had been told to go into hiding.
Campbell was just as concerned,
highlighting the fact that during their enforced holiday they hadn’t been
mentioned on the BBC news channel. That
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