Debbie’s door showed no sign of opening. Anna reached for the case-file again. Heather Shanks was only twelve when she was placed at Hopeland. She’d been there several months when Spider came onto the scene. Like Debbie Tompkins, Heather was the product of a loveless, abusive home. Unlike Debbie, Spider hadn’t groomed her with drugs, he’d used something even more insidious. For months he’d bombarded her with affection, carefully nurturing her emotional dependency on him. He’d made her believe he was the only person in the world who truly cared for her. Then he’d betrayed that belief in the worst way imaginable.
Her nose puckering as though she’d touched something slimy, Anna set the folder aside. She glanced at the dashboard clock. It had been half an hour. Debbie clearly wasn’t about to change her mind any time soon. Anna wasn’t surprised. Nor did she feel any anger towards Debbie. It took a special kind of person to escape a past like hers. Most never truly managed it, no matter how hard they tried. And those that did would have to be extraordinarily brave – or perhaps foolish – to revisit it.
Anna looked up Heather’s address before starting the van and heading back to the main road. An hour or so later, she hit the suburbs of Manchester. She followed the signs for Levenshulme, passing through a heavily built up area of terraced houses, council estates, bustling open-air markets and local shops. She pulled over outside a flat-roofed block of maisonettes facing a rectangle of scruffy grass and a boarded-up, graffiti-tagged building. Heather only lived four or five miles from the Hopeland home. She apparently hadn’t needed, or perhaps been able, to get away from Manchester. Maybe, reasoned Anna, she would be more willing to talk about the abuse. She climbed a flight of stairs to an external landing and knocked on a battered and flaking door. There was no answer. She tried again. Still no answer. She returned to the van and settled down with a cigarette to watch and wait.
The daylight was just beginning to fade when Anna spotted Heather teetering along in high-heels, a miniskirt and a tight vest that showed off her cleavage. Her face was artificially orange and pasted with makeup. Her hair was jet black at the ends and blonde at the roots. She was arguing with a scag-faced, heavily tattooed man. A girl of eleven or twelve trailed along behind them, staring vacantly at the pavement. Her hair was the same colour as Heather’s roots. She had Heather’s broad, sullen face too.
Anna waited until they were inside the maisonette, then climbed the stairs and knocked again. The young girl opened the door on the security chain and eyed Anna suspiciously. ‘Who are you?’ she asked in a thick Mancunian accent.
‘My name’s Anna. I’d like to talk to your mum, please.’
The girl’s face disappeared from the gap. ‘Mum,’ she shouted, ‘it’s for you. Someone called Anna.’
‘Anna?’ came the mystified retort. ‘I don’t know any fucking Annas.’ Heather’s frowning face appeared at the door. ‘Who are you and what do you want?’
Anna had already decided to try a slightly less direct tack than with Debbie. ‘I’m Anna Young and I was hoping we could help each other.’
Heather rolled her eyes. ‘Fucking hell, I should’ve guessed.’
A man’s smoke-roughened voice came from further within the maisonette. ‘Who is it?’
‘It’s another one of them God-botherers.’
‘Well tell ’em to piss off.’
‘I’m not a God-botherer,’ said Anna. ‘And I’m not here to sell you anything. I’ve lost something. And I know you’ve lost something too. It’s not anything we can ever get back. But maybe between us we can get to the truth of it.’
Heather’s frown deepened with uncertainty. She stared at Anna as if trying to work out whether she knew her from somewhere. Then she closed the door. A second passed. Two, three… ten seconds. She’s not going to let me in ,
Her nose puckering as though she’d touched something slimy, Anna set the folder aside. She glanced at the dashboard clock. It had been half an hour. Debbie clearly wasn’t about to change her mind any time soon. Anna wasn’t surprised. Nor did she feel any anger towards Debbie. It took a special kind of person to escape a past like hers. Most never truly managed it, no matter how hard they tried. And those that did would have to be extraordinarily brave – or perhaps foolish – to revisit it.
Anna looked up Heather’s address before starting the van and heading back to the main road. An hour or so later, she hit the suburbs of Manchester. She followed the signs for Levenshulme, passing through a heavily built up area of terraced houses, council estates, bustling open-air markets and local shops. She pulled over outside a flat-roofed block of maisonettes facing a rectangle of scruffy grass and a boarded-up, graffiti-tagged building. Heather only lived four or five miles from the Hopeland home. She apparently hadn’t needed, or perhaps been able, to get away from Manchester. Maybe, reasoned Anna, she would be more willing to talk about the abuse. She climbed a flight of stairs to an external landing and knocked on a battered and flaking door. There was no answer. She tried again. Still no answer. She returned to the van and settled down with a cigarette to watch and wait.
The daylight was just beginning to fade when Anna spotted Heather teetering along in high-heels, a miniskirt and a tight vest that showed off her cleavage. Her face was artificially orange and pasted with makeup. Her hair was jet black at the ends and blonde at the roots. She was arguing with a scag-faced, heavily tattooed man. A girl of eleven or twelve trailed along behind them, staring vacantly at the pavement. Her hair was the same colour as Heather’s roots. She had Heather’s broad, sullen face too.
Anna waited until they were inside the maisonette, then climbed the stairs and knocked again. The young girl opened the door on the security chain and eyed Anna suspiciously. ‘Who are you?’ she asked in a thick Mancunian accent.
‘My name’s Anna. I’d like to talk to your mum, please.’
The girl’s face disappeared from the gap. ‘Mum,’ she shouted, ‘it’s for you. Someone called Anna.’
‘Anna?’ came the mystified retort. ‘I don’t know any fucking Annas.’ Heather’s frowning face appeared at the door. ‘Who are you and what do you want?’
Anna had already decided to try a slightly less direct tack than with Debbie. ‘I’m Anna Young and I was hoping we could help each other.’
Heather rolled her eyes. ‘Fucking hell, I should’ve guessed.’
A man’s smoke-roughened voice came from further within the maisonette. ‘Who is it?’
‘It’s another one of them God-botherers.’
‘Well tell ’em to piss off.’
‘I’m not a God-botherer,’ said Anna. ‘And I’m not here to sell you anything. I’ve lost something. And I know you’ve lost something too. It’s not anything we can ever get back. But maybe between us we can get to the truth of it.’
Heather’s frown deepened with uncertainty. She stared at Anna as if trying to work out whether she knew her from somewhere. Then she closed the door. A second passed. Two, three… ten seconds. She’s not going to let me in ,
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