that wouldn’t draw the attention of a gnat. I note the tinted windows approvingly then hastily get into the driver’s seat before Rogu3 can volunteer to drive. He’s still under age but that hasn’t stopped him so far.
There’s something oddly comforting about driving through the quiet streets of London at this hour. I suppose I’ve been conditioned to enjoy darkness. I was sure that as soon as I was strong enough to withstand the UV rays during daylight I’d never return to stalking the streets at night but it actually feels good. Perhaps, once all is said and done, I really am a creature of the night.
We whip through the city centre. Even those areas with nightclubs and twenty-four-hour drinking establishments are almost completely dead. I spot a few homeless people shuffling along, the orange hue from the street lights lighting them up in such a way that anyone who didn’t know better would view them as almost romantic figures. Some prostitutes are out and about but their bored expressions tell of a night with little passing trade. I’m tempted to stop the car and pay one for a drink to make sure I keep my strength up but, with the kids in tow, I feel uneasy about being so transparent. Although, as Maria has already pointed out, to view either her or Rogu3 as children is to ignore what they really are and what they’ve already experienced.
The things we do to innocents.
The car pulls almost silently into Rogu3’s leafy street. It might look like your typical family cruiser but a lot of money has gone into making it as stealthy as possible. I kill the lights to aid our approach. Apart from a cat sauntering along a wall, everything is still. We roll to a stop and wait.
The house looks the same as ever. So does the street. ‘It’s fine, Bo,’ Rogu3 insists quietly.
‘It’s not paranoia if they’re really after you,’ I tell him in return.
He leans forward. ‘That car belongs to the Goodsons at number twenty-three. That ancient Rover is the old bloke’s who shouts at passers-by. The one next to it is the Lairds’ pride and joy.’ I flick him a look. He shrugs expansively. ‘What? I engaged in criminal activity too. You don’t think I didn’t know how to cover my tracks and pay attention?’
I don’t answer. Instead I step out and activate the child-lock, securing both Rogu3 and Maria inside. Ignoring his yelp of protest, I stroll across the road. I’m not letting either of them out until I’m sure we’re safe.
I circle, keeping every sense alert. He’s right about the cars: no one is hunkered down in any of them. None of the houses display flickering shadows or twitchy curtains. So far so good. Next, I move up to his parents’ house.
The garage door is firmly closed. I wonder idly whether they’ve turned it into a typical suburban depository for lawnmowers and wheelie bins now that Rogu3’s equipment has been turfed out. I inch towards it and listen. Nothing. Satisfied that it’s empty – of people at least – I walk over to the house. The curtains are closed but there’s a gap at the side of the living-room window which I peer through. The room looks the same as ever.
I skirt round the back way and check the garden. There’s a scrap of lawn edged with newly turned earth and a spinning clothes dryer. I crouch down and count to a hundred in my head. Nothing changes. Nothing moves. There is, however, a single footprint in the earth to my right.
I stare at it. The toe is pointing away from the house towards the fence that divides this house from its neighbour. Someone was here very recently and, judging by the imprint, it was a woman. A stiletto-heeled woman. Hope flares briefly inside me but I quash it. There’s no time for this right now. I gnaw my bottom lip. Whoever she was, she’s not here now. It’s time to get on with the matter in hand.
I release Maria and Rogu3 from the confines of the car. Both of them scowl at me. Maria opens her mouth but I gesture at her to keep
There’s something oddly comforting about driving through the quiet streets of London at this hour. I suppose I’ve been conditioned to enjoy darkness. I was sure that as soon as I was strong enough to withstand the UV rays during daylight I’d never return to stalking the streets at night but it actually feels good. Perhaps, once all is said and done, I really am a creature of the night.
We whip through the city centre. Even those areas with nightclubs and twenty-four-hour drinking establishments are almost completely dead. I spot a few homeless people shuffling along, the orange hue from the street lights lighting them up in such a way that anyone who didn’t know better would view them as almost romantic figures. Some prostitutes are out and about but their bored expressions tell of a night with little passing trade. I’m tempted to stop the car and pay one for a drink to make sure I keep my strength up but, with the kids in tow, I feel uneasy about being so transparent. Although, as Maria has already pointed out, to view either her or Rogu3 as children is to ignore what they really are and what they’ve already experienced.
The things we do to innocents.
The car pulls almost silently into Rogu3’s leafy street. It might look like your typical family cruiser but a lot of money has gone into making it as stealthy as possible. I kill the lights to aid our approach. Apart from a cat sauntering along a wall, everything is still. We roll to a stop and wait.
The house looks the same as ever. So does the street. ‘It’s fine, Bo,’ Rogu3 insists quietly.
‘It’s not paranoia if they’re really after you,’ I tell him in return.
He leans forward. ‘That car belongs to the Goodsons at number twenty-three. That ancient Rover is the old bloke’s who shouts at passers-by. The one next to it is the Lairds’ pride and joy.’ I flick him a look. He shrugs expansively. ‘What? I engaged in criminal activity too. You don’t think I didn’t know how to cover my tracks and pay attention?’
I don’t answer. Instead I step out and activate the child-lock, securing both Rogu3 and Maria inside. Ignoring his yelp of protest, I stroll across the road. I’m not letting either of them out until I’m sure we’re safe.
I circle, keeping every sense alert. He’s right about the cars: no one is hunkered down in any of them. None of the houses display flickering shadows or twitchy curtains. So far so good. Next, I move up to his parents’ house.
The garage door is firmly closed. I wonder idly whether they’ve turned it into a typical suburban depository for lawnmowers and wheelie bins now that Rogu3’s equipment has been turfed out. I inch towards it and listen. Nothing. Satisfied that it’s empty – of people at least – I walk over to the house. The curtains are closed but there’s a gap at the side of the living-room window which I peer through. The room looks the same as ever.
I skirt round the back way and check the garden. There’s a scrap of lawn edged with newly turned earth and a spinning clothes dryer. I crouch down and count to a hundred in my head. Nothing changes. Nothing moves. There is, however, a single footprint in the earth to my right.
I stare at it. The toe is pointing away from the house towards the fence that divides this house from its neighbour. Someone was here very recently and, judging by the imprint, it was a woman. A stiletto-heeled woman. Hope flares briefly inside me but I quash it. There’s no time for this right now. I gnaw my bottom lip. Whoever she was, she’s not here now. It’s time to get on with the matter in hand.
I release Maria and Rogu3 from the confines of the car. Both of them scowl at me. Maria opens her mouth but I gesture at her to keep
Similar Books
