The Two O'Clock Boy Page 9

  ‘I could have got you in trouble,’ he told Connor. ‘I could have told Gordon you lost it.’

  ‘I don’t care what he thinks.’

  The kid was full of it. ‘Sure you do. He’d kill us!’

  Connor picked up the bag by its strap and Elliot thought he was going to continue on his way, but instead he spun on his heels like an Olympic discus thrower, and let go of the bag. It flew over their heads and landed in the water. They watched it turn in a lazy circle on the surface and then sink, the last package of drugs inside. Elliot groaned in disbelief. This kid was a maniac.

  ‘We don’t tell him!’ Elliot said in a panic ‘We’ll say we made the delivery.’ Connor’s lack of concern only made him more frantic. ‘Say you won’t tell him!’

  But Connor just walked off.

  When they got back to the home, one of the kids, a sullen girl called Amelia, was sitting outside. She watched them warily, ready to run.

  ‘What you doing here?’ snapped Elliot.

  Amelia wore a pink T-shirt, a cracked silver star embossed on the front, and flared jeans. Her hair was tied back in a scruffy ponytail. Ignoring him, she hugged her notebook and tensely watched Connor. Elliot didn’t usually pay much attention to this kid. Amelia was one of the quiet ones, the ones with dull eyes who stepped aside when he approached – there were loads of those in this place. But this one loved to draw. Meek as a lamb she was, but always getting in trouble for scrawling on the walls and furniture, on every smooth surface she could find. Gordon got angry about it, she’d been on the end of a series of slaps, but it didn’t stop her. In the end, Gerry Dent had bought her a sketchbook, which she’d lovingly covered with stickers, glitter and crepe paper.

  As soon as they stepped inside, they understood why she was hovering. Shouts and screams came from behind the closed office door. Usually, you walked into the house and heard the thrum of the kids in your head, like a swarm of bees. But on days like this, when Gordon had been drinking, everyone scattered to the bottom of the garden or the far corners of the house. They knew what was coming and they did their best to make themselves invisible. The manager drank every night, but some days he started drinking first thing in the morning and didn’t stop – those were the days you feared.

  ‘How long’s it been going on?’ Connor asked Amelia.

  ‘What does it matter?’ said Elliot. ‘If they—’

  ‘I’m not talking to you,’ Connor snapped.

  Elliot was getting sick of the way the new kid treated him.

  ‘Hours,’ Amelia said.

  ‘Drinking,’ said Elliot, who knew how the rows always started, and how they ended. ‘And … other stuff.’

  Connor stood at the office door and listened to Gordon and Sally screaming obscenities.

  ‘She’s crying,’ he said.

  Connor rattled the knob, and the thought of the door flying open to reveal Gordon terrified Elliot, who sloped away quickly, thinking about that last package slipping beneath the water in a foam of bubbles.

  Maybe they’d get away with it – some of the people they delivered to couldn’t tell you what day of the week it was, perhaps they wouldn’t notice. But Elliot had no doubt that Connor would lie and say he had done it, that he would really drop him in the shit. He considered getting his attack in first and telling Gordon that Connor had lost the package. But he knew that wouldn’t work, Gordon wouldn’t believe him, not in a million years.

  At dinner, Elliot’s chest and stomach were knotted so tightly that he could barely breathe, let alone eat. The food tasted like ashes in his mouth. He didn’t hear any of the conversation at the table, didn’t even join in when Jason and Kenny and David started flinging food. For the first time since he’d been at the Longacre, he considered legging it. Nothing happened that evening, though. Gordon didn’t emerge from his office, and Elliot dared to hope they’d got away with it.

  But that night, tossing and turning in bed in the early hours, he heard the muffled ring of a phone downstairs, and knew his luck had run out.

  Bang, bang, bang.

  That small room behind Gordon’s desk terrified him. He’d never been inside, but the kids who had been taken there were never the same again. They lost something – he couldn’t explain what it was, exactly: a spark, a fragment of themselves. You could see it in their eyes, in the way they looked at you but didn’t see you.

  There were six of them in the bedroom. Connor was below the bay window, with Amelia on a mattress beside him. Kenny was in the room, too, and Karen and Debs. Elliot’s bed was nearest the door. Everyone was supposed to be asleep, but he could hear quick, panicked breaths. A train clattered along the track behind the house, sending patterns of light jerking across the ceiling. Elliot glimpsed Connor, turned away.

  Minutes later, the office door opened. A whimper came from one of the other beds. Elliot’s shattered nose throbbed, as if in warning.

  Bang, bang, bang.

  Gordon’s footsteps, slow and heavy. The rasp of his palm on the banister.

  Elliot pressed his eyes shut, pretending to sleep, but when Gordon reached the doorway, he couldn’t resist looking. The manager stood so close to the end of his bed that he could smell his body odour, the alcohol lashing off him. Gordon dabbed at the wall, trying to find the light. He gave up – it didn’t work anyway – and slapped at the crumbling plaster.

  ‘Is there something you want to tell me, lad?’ he slurred into the darkness. ‘Because you’ve put me in a very awkward situation.’

  Elliot shook. This wasn’t how things were meant to be.

  ‘I got a call,’ Gordon continued. ‘A friend of mine didn’t receive his goods. To say he’s not happy is an understatement. And if he’s not happy – well, you can imagine how unhappy I am.’

  ‘Don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Elliot. ‘Go away.’

  ‘Let’s go; we’ll talk it through downstairs. Come along, boy.’ The noise in Elliot’s head was unbearable. Lurching forward, Gordon’s knees bumped against the frame and the bed shuddered. Elliot forced himself not to cry out. ‘I’ll not tell you again.’

  ‘Leave him alone,’ said a voice, and Elliot tensed. He could just make out the silhouette of Connor standing in the middle of the room.

  Gordon’s neck craned forward. ‘That you, Connor?’

  ‘Go away.’

  ‘Don’t be like that, lad. I don’t know what Elliot did with the produce, but it’s very expensive, so it is, and either he gives it back or he accepts the consequences.’

  ‘I lost it.’ Connor’s shadow darted across the floor so quickly that Gordon stumbled backwards in surprise. ‘I threw the bag in the canal.’

  Gordon swayed, his ragged breath catching in his throat.

  ‘Well, you are a brave lad, I was right about you.’ He wagged a finger. ‘Perhaps you did it, perhaps you didn’t. But tonight, I think, you have me at a disadvantage. I’ll be honest, I’m not feeling hunky-dory. That Sally has sapped me dry. None of you appreciate what I have to put up with where that girl is concerned. So I’m going to let it go, just this one time.’ Elliot heard the dry snap of his whiskers as the manager ran a hand down his beard. He shuffled to the door. ‘You kids have a good night’s sleep, and I’ll see you in the morning.’

  Then they heard his slow heavy steps on the stairs.

  Bang, bang, bang.

  Far below, the door to the office opened and closed.

  Connor had slipped back into bed. Elliot could just about make him out, the pillow pressed over his head beneath a sliver of moonlight.

  ‘Connor!’ he whispered. ‘Connor!’

  But Connor never answered. Elliot lay down, his earlier terror turning to guilt and shame. Connor had stood up to Gordon – something that Elliot would never dare to do – when it would have been easier to make Elliot’s life a living hell.

  He had challenged him, embarrassed him in front of the other kids, and that was something Gordon would never – could never – forget. Connor
was a nutcase. It was the only explanation.

  And if they ever went to war, those two, Elliot didn’t want to be there, because he had no idea how far they would go, the adult and the boy, to destroy the other.

  16

  Back at her desk, weary and starving, Flick considered taking Ray Drake’s advice about going home. But she was there now, wedged into her chair with her coat on, the shoebox in front of her. The first grey threads of morning bloated the horizon. Delivery vans and lorries rumbled along the High Road below.

  She didn’t think she had the energy to return the box to the basement, let alone drive home, so she took out the cuttings that Ray Drake had found in Ryan Overton’s flat. Articles from old newspapers and photocopies on curling paper. The clippings were torn and dog-eared, many were littered with Post-it notes covered in an illegible scrawl.

  An A4 sheet of yellow lined paper had been slipped into one of the plastic sheaves. Flick could barely make out the scribbled blizzard of spidery writing and crossings-out. At first she thought it was a code, but then she realised that Kenny, a man who had spent much of his childhood institutionalised, could barely write. If necessary, there were graphologists they could employ, but she was reluctant. Cutbacks being what they were, the MIT was expected to justify the cost of everything.

  The one thing she could read, because it was printed in clumsy block capitals, was a list of crossed-out names.

  DAVID HORNER

  KAREN SMITH

  REGINA BERMAN

  RICKY HANCOCK

  JASON BURGESS

  At the bottom were other names:

  ELLIOT JUNIPER

  AMELIA TROY

  DEBORAH WILLETTS

  CONNOR LAIRD???!!!

  Flick laid the list to one side and picked up the clippings. The first was a single column, glued to a sheet of A4. It was taken from the Sheffield Star, and dated 20 October 1991.

  Mother and Twins Killed in Fire

  A single mother and her infant twins were last night killed in a blaze that ripped through a sheltered housing complex.

  Firemen were unable to save Regina Berman (17) and her one-year-old daughters, Annabel and Darcey, who died from smoke inhalation in an upstairs bedroom of their flat.

  Residents and staff were evacuated to a nearby leisure centre when the blaze ripped through Colney Court in the early hours of the morning.

  Miss Berman had joined the Colney Assisted Housing scheme after being made homeless. Neighbours described her as a good mother who made an impression on everyone she met.

  ‘Her little girls had so much to live for,’ neighbour, Hilary Frost (43), said. ‘They were poor, but always had a smile for everybody.’

  The cause of the blaze, which is thought to have started in the family’s flat, is still unknown.

  Flapping her arms out of her coat, Flick picked up the next article. The South London Guardian and Gazette, 23 January 1998.

  Local Couple Tragedy – Suicide Says Court

  A local couple killed themselves in a suicide pact, a court heard.

  Jeff Moore and Karen Smith, both 30, of Sweepers Road, Bermondsey, attached a rubber hose to the exhaust of their car on 12 November last year and died of carbon monoxide poisoning.

  A neighbour alerted police when he spotted smoke coming from beneath a garage door. When police and ambulance crews gained access, they found Mr Moore and Miss Smith in the back seat of the vehicle.

  The court heard Mr Moore, a refuse collector for Lambeth Council, and Miss Smith, who worked in the Clean ’N’ Tidy Launderette in New Cross, had both been depressed about not being able to adopt because of Miss Smith’s history of drink and drug dependency.

  A friend of the couple, Benedict Donaldson, was ejected from the court when he interrupted proceedings. Speaking to the South London Guardian, he angrily refuted the Coroner’s assertion that the couple had killed themselves.

  ‘I spoke to Karen and Jeff nearly every day and they were happy, and looking forward to the future.’

  The Coroner recorded a verdict of suicide.

  Flick placed the article face down on top of the first. Her mouth was dry – a coke from the vending machine would give her a sugar kick – but she wanted to finish reading. The next cutting was printed on greasy paper that looked like it had curled through a fax machine. It was from the Canberra Star, dated 5 September 2001.

  A stable mate at a local stud farm has died in a barn fire that also claimed the lives of six horses.

  David Horner (27) was bedded down at the Appletree Stud Farm to nurse a sick mare when the blaze ripped through the barn during the night. A workmate who spotted the flames pulled Mr Horner from the blaze, but he later died in hospital.

  Several horses were saved, but a number had to be put down as a result of their injuries.

  English-born Mr Horner had worked at the ranch for several years.

  Owner Wayne Garry told the Canberra Star that Mr Horner had a special bond with the animals. ‘Davey was a shy guy, and awkward with people. Those horses meant everything to him. We’re all sick here; it’s a senseless waste of a life.’

  Authorities suspect a dropped cigarette could have been the cause of the fire, but stressed that they didn’t want to preempt any inquiry.

  Flick made a note to find out if David Horner had any family in the UK, and reached for the next clipping. From the St Albans Examiner, dated 14 March 2008:

  Crash A Tragic Accident

  A family of five were killed when their car left the road and sank in the River Ver.

  Local man Ricky Hancock (38), unemployed —

  Flick blinked. Another family. She took a breath, and read on.

  Local man Ricky Hancock (38), unemployed, his wife Jennifer (34) and their three children, Nathan (12), Fleming (8) and Tiffany (4), all drowned.

  Mr Justice Egan told St Albans Coroner’s Court that Mr Hancock was four times over the limit when the Peugeot sank into the freezing river in a matter of seconds. The family had been returning from a party outside St Albans.

  Partygoer Sheila Fisher told the court that she had seen another man climb into the car with the family. No one else at the party confirmed the sighting, and Mrs Fisher admitted she had consumed a lot of alcohol and could be mistaken.

  Flick rubbed her eyes. She double-checked the articles against the list of crossed-out names. There weren’t any clippings about the death of Jason Burgess, but Kenny knew those facts all too well. Jason shot dead his partner and daughter, then turned the gun on himself.

  Another family dead.

  Neither were there articles about the death of anyone called Elliot Juniper, Deborah Willetts, Amelia Troy – that last name was familiar to her somehow – or Connor Laird, whose name had been underlined. There was nothing to suggest that they’d died in a fire or drowned or committed suicide. Everyone else on the list, the ones with their names scored through by Kenny’s uncertain hand, were dead. Their families, if they had families, were dead.

  And now Kenny Overton and his own family had been murdered.

  According to Ryan, all these people had been at the same children’s home – the Longacre – a long time ago. If that were true, nobody would ever make a connection between the victims, who had scattered across the country, across continents, decades ago. And these were only the people Kenny had managed to locate.

  What had become of all the others from the home?

  Perhaps it was the tentative fingers of dawn light pressing into her eyes, or the fact that she’d hardly eaten a thing, but a wave of nausea washed over her. The implication of what she’d read still sinking in, she took out the last two clippings. Both were stiff with age. The first was taken from the Hackney Express. An edition dated 31 July 1984. The short article was headlined: JUDGE VISITS LOCAL CHILDREN’S HOME.

  Noted High Court judge Leonard Drake dropped in to meet the kids at the Longacre Children’s Home this week.

  Mr Drake and his wife Myra visited in his role as Chairman of the Hack
ney Children’s Protection League to meet manager Gordon Tallis and his dedicated staff.

  The eminent judge, who has presided over some of the country’s biggest court cases, told the Express he was impressed with what he’d seen of the home, a refuge for many kids in the borough without a family.

  ‘The children seem happy here. I’ve communicated my delight to Mr Tallis.’

  Mr Tallis said the children in the home, who range in age from eight to sixteen years, were over the moon to have such an important person visit.

  ‘Sometimes,’ he told our reporter, ‘the children can feel forgotten by the outside world, so it was a boost to everyone’s morale that Mr and Mrs Drake took the time to visit us. We’re all very grateful!’

  There was a caption above the article, but the accompanying photo was missing. The top edge of the paper was serrated roughly where it had been torn. The caption said: A happy visit: (From left to right) Mr Gordon Tallis, Kenny Overton, Toby Turrell, Jason Burgess, Mr Leonard Drake and Mrs Myra Drake, Elliot Juniper, Amelia Troy, Connor Laird.

  Flick blinked. Leonard and Myra Drake. Ray Drake’s parents. His father, if she remembered correctly, had been a High Court judge, and Flick had seen his sour old mother at Laura Drake’s funeral. If Ray had read these clippings earlier, why hadn’t he mentioned it?

  The door to her office swung open and a cleaner walked in with a sack. The Incident Room was filled with the drone of vacuum cleaners.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Flick held up a finger. ‘I’ll get out of your way in a few moments.’

  The last newspaper clipping was dated 6 August 1984. An entire page this time, folded in the middle. The Hackney Express masthead was at the top. The front-page headline, in large black capitals, read: LOCAL HERO KILLED IN CHILDREN’S HOME BLAZE.

  A children’s home manager died a hero when a blaze ripped through the building to which he had devoted his life.