Hoped it was just a panic attack.
Oh, God, not a heart attack, please, not a heart attack
…
He gripped the wheel, eyes screwed tight, breathing through his teeth.
I can’t do this on my own, he thought, gasping. I need help.
Peta. Amar and Jamal. All together, Albion functioning like it used to. He wanted that back again. Needed it.
His family. His other family.
He pitched forward against the steering wheel as another spasm lurched through him. He fumbled in his pocket for his mobile, tried to bring it out, key in a number. Peta. Dropped it.
Closed his eyes.
Opened them again.
He looked around, sat up. Feeling in his arms, his legs again. Breathing normally. It was over. He had ridden the panic attack out.
The CD was still playing. He frowned. Two tracks down.
He had blacked out, sat there unconscious for over five minutes. He shook his head. Over five minutes.
He turned on the car, put it into gear. Drove away.
Couldn’t do this alone any more.
He needed help.
9
Mr Sharples took his usual booth at the Café Roma on Mosley Street, espresso before him. Neat, grey-suited, mid-fifties with close-cropped steel-grey hair and rimless glasses, he was invisible to the mass of commuting customers filing in and out. How he liked it. Power, he knew, lay in the shadows.
He sipped, the hot, black bitterness scalding down his throat. He licked his lips, relished the feeling. Took out his black leather notebook. Planning ahead.
Things were going well. After Oaten’s talking to. Only one minor problem. But that would be dealt with soon.
His mobile trilled. He checked the name on the display. Answered it.
‘I hear the boy has escaped,’ the caller said. ‘Do we need to talk?’
‘No.’ Mr Sharples didn’t like talking on mobiles. Any phones for that matter. Even if it was as secure a line as money could buy.
‘Do you need that particular one? Have you a replacement?’
‘No. We need him. And we’ll get him. He’s being programmed.’
‘Not very well, from the sounds of it,’ said the caller. ‘We need to step it up. An event. Another diversion. Another crisis.’
Mr Sharples took another sip of espresso. ‘What did you have in mind?’
‘I leave that to you.’
The line went dead. Mr Sharples folded his phone, slipped it back into his jacket pocket. Took another sip.
An event. A diversion.
A crisis.
He smiled. Licked his lips.
He knew just the thing.
Jamal knelt in the front garden, fingers digging in the dirt. He and Donovan had meant to do this for ages, been putting it off. He worked furiously, ripping and pulling, soil spraying everywhere. Gardening tools, plant pots, bags of compost and bedding plants in polystyrene trays were strewn all around him.
He had checked all round the house. It was like he had first feared. Both his and Donovan’s iPods were gone, some CDs and ornaments, Jamal’s wallet with cash and his debit card. Jamal had ripped people off in his time, back in the day when he was on the streets. But that was OK, expected. They were johns, he was a hustler. All part of the harsh, grim game. But now it had happened to him and he hated it. He was no john, no soft target. Hated it even more that someone who’d been in the life like him, should have known better, had done it. Someone he was trying to help.
There were rules about these things. Jason needed to be taught them.
And Jamal didn’t know what to tell Donovan. Was dreading his return. He just knew he should be occupying himself with something.
So he was ripping weeds out of the front garden.
He worked on and morning became afternoon. Became lost in what he was doing. So lost he didn’t notice the Land Rover pull up at the end of the road, the three men get out.
But they saw him. They walked towards the cottage,checking all round, the fields, trees, bushes, as if searching for something.
Or someone.
Jamal became aware of their nearing presence, looked up from where he knelt. Three pairs of steel-toecapped
Oh, God, not a heart attack, please, not a heart attack
…
He gripped the wheel, eyes screwed tight, breathing through his teeth.
I can’t do this on my own, he thought, gasping. I need help.
Peta. Amar and Jamal. All together, Albion functioning like it used to. He wanted that back again. Needed it.
His family. His other family.
He pitched forward against the steering wheel as another spasm lurched through him. He fumbled in his pocket for his mobile, tried to bring it out, key in a number. Peta. Dropped it.
Closed his eyes.
Opened them again.
He looked around, sat up. Feeling in his arms, his legs again. Breathing normally. It was over. He had ridden the panic attack out.
The CD was still playing. He frowned. Two tracks down.
He had blacked out, sat there unconscious for over five minutes. He shook his head. Over five minutes.
He turned on the car, put it into gear. Drove away.
Couldn’t do this alone any more.
He needed help.
9
Mr Sharples took his usual booth at the Café Roma on Mosley Street, espresso before him. Neat, grey-suited, mid-fifties with close-cropped steel-grey hair and rimless glasses, he was invisible to the mass of commuting customers filing in and out. How he liked it. Power, he knew, lay in the shadows.
He sipped, the hot, black bitterness scalding down his throat. He licked his lips, relished the feeling. Took out his black leather notebook. Planning ahead.
Things were going well. After Oaten’s talking to. Only one minor problem. But that would be dealt with soon.
His mobile trilled. He checked the name on the display. Answered it.
‘I hear the boy has escaped,’ the caller said. ‘Do we need to talk?’
‘No.’ Mr Sharples didn’t like talking on mobiles. Any phones for that matter. Even if it was as secure a line as money could buy.
‘Do you need that particular one? Have you a replacement?’
‘No. We need him. And we’ll get him. He’s being programmed.’
‘Not very well, from the sounds of it,’ said the caller. ‘We need to step it up. An event. Another diversion. Another crisis.’
Mr Sharples took another sip of espresso. ‘What did you have in mind?’
‘I leave that to you.’
The line went dead. Mr Sharples folded his phone, slipped it back into his jacket pocket. Took another sip.
An event. A diversion.
A crisis.
He smiled. Licked his lips.
He knew just the thing.
Jamal knelt in the front garden, fingers digging in the dirt. He and Donovan had meant to do this for ages, been putting it off. He worked furiously, ripping and pulling, soil spraying everywhere. Gardening tools, plant pots, bags of compost and bedding plants in polystyrene trays were strewn all around him.
He had checked all round the house. It was like he had first feared. Both his and Donovan’s iPods were gone, some CDs and ornaments, Jamal’s wallet with cash and his debit card. Jamal had ripped people off in his time, back in the day when he was on the streets. But that was OK, expected. They were johns, he was a hustler. All part of the harsh, grim game. But now it had happened to him and he hated it. He was no john, no soft target. Hated it even more that someone who’d been in the life like him, should have known better, had done it. Someone he was trying to help.
There were rules about these things. Jason needed to be taught them.
And Jamal didn’t know what to tell Donovan. Was dreading his return. He just knew he should be occupying himself with something.
So he was ripping weeds out of the front garden.
He worked on and morning became afternoon. Became lost in what he was doing. So lost he didn’t notice the Land Rover pull up at the end of the road, the three men get out.
But they saw him. They walked towards the cottage,checking all round, the fields, trees, bushes, as if searching for something.
Or someone.
Jamal became aware of their nearing presence, looked up from where he knelt. Three pairs of steel-toecapped
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