down, feels the ligaments around the knee. ‘You’ll be OK, just make sure you rest up a day or so.’ She drops the remaining wraps onto his shallow chest, knowing that if she doesn’t return his narcotics, his future will darken, not brighten. ‘And stop using this stuff.’ She puts a hand to his cheek. ‘You’re a good lad. You can’t hide it from me.’
‘Suck me,’ he says.
She laughs, clocks his fake ID on the floor. ‘Shut up, Louis.’
‘How you know my name?’
She puts the toe of her foot on the corner of the ID.
‘Don’t mess with Haddaway, miss.’ He struggles to his feet, bends his leg, rubs his knee and picks up his ID. He stands in the doorway and watches Josie all the way into the lift, stays there as she gets in. As the doors close‚ he says‚ ‘Serious. Don’t go.’
The lift rattles and jolts, the storeys counting up slowly. The stench of humanity is thick and Josie puts a hand over her mouth and nose, takes in the smell of soap between her fingers, thinks about how officially there are only two e.gang members living on the Attlee. One is Brandon Latymer, invisible to the police since Jadus Golding was shot. The other is Shawne Haddaway and she is here to see if Shawne has a computer and if he does, to see what footprints he has left in the virtual world.
Josie gets out at Level Three and steps over the discarded box of a fifty-inch TV. From up here you can see the City glisten not so far away. Dogs bark and the mother-freaking hip-hop is louder. She works her way around the deck until she gets to the Cs.
A drawl of music leaks from inside number thirty-four and Josie peers through a gap in the curtains of the front room, can see nothing, so she knocks, lightly. Waits. She knocks again and takes out her ring of keys, checks the likely candidates and tries one. Along the deck, a young woman pushes a baby out of her flat. She must be fifteen, but looks younger, and as she passes Josie she curls her lip. The key turns and Josie opens the door, says softly, ‘Haddaway. Shawne Haddaway?’
No response.
She follows the low drone of music down the dark hall, chipboard for floor, and darkly stained in places. It could be blood. At the end of the hall, she pushes open the door and the sound of Marvin Gaye spreads joyously from a boombox on the window-ledge. ‘What’s Goin’ On.’ Between her and the music, a young man is flat on his back on a bare mattress. On the floor by his dangling hand, the rudiments of an afternoon on the crack pipe. She taps him on the shoulder and steps back, warrant card in hand. He doesn’t move.
Josie backs tenderly out of Haddaway’s bedroom, easing the door closed and looking anxiously over her shoulder. She checks the bathroom and goes into the open-plan living area, which has a rusting two-ring hob next to a sink piled high with pizza boxes and bottles of Courvoisier. On the floor is a brand-spanking AirBook with its screen up. She powers it up and immediately a screensaver of Rihanna appears. There is no end of choice for unsecured wireless connections and within seconds, Josie is scrolling through Shawne’s web history: an unglittering profile of music downloads, weaponry sites and porn.
In amongst them, Google Earth. When she hovers over the search predictors, only one item comes up. Right-clicking, her stomach turns over.
Josie and Pulford had a thing once. It was three years ago and unsatisfactory and they each laugh about it now, an unrequited petting frenzy and a wordless breakfast at a greasy spoon in Southgate, but she remembers quite vividly the few minutes Pulford spent talking about his mother. His mother who, when her only son moved to the Big Smoke, stayed put. Josie hadn’t known the place she stayed put and Pulford had to tell her it was near Newcastle.
Now, she reads ‘Whitley Bay’ and remembers.
Shawne Haddaway had summoned Google’s might down from the sky and trained a bead on 24 McIvor Street, Whitley Bay. Josie
‘Suck me,’ he says.
She laughs, clocks his fake ID on the floor. ‘Shut up, Louis.’
‘How you know my name?’
She puts the toe of her foot on the corner of the ID.
‘Don’t mess with Haddaway, miss.’ He struggles to his feet, bends his leg, rubs his knee and picks up his ID. He stands in the doorway and watches Josie all the way into the lift, stays there as she gets in. As the doors close‚ he says‚ ‘Serious. Don’t go.’
The lift rattles and jolts, the storeys counting up slowly. The stench of humanity is thick and Josie puts a hand over her mouth and nose, takes in the smell of soap between her fingers, thinks about how officially there are only two e.gang members living on the Attlee. One is Brandon Latymer, invisible to the police since Jadus Golding was shot. The other is Shawne Haddaway and she is here to see if Shawne has a computer and if he does, to see what footprints he has left in the virtual world.
Josie gets out at Level Three and steps over the discarded box of a fifty-inch TV. From up here you can see the City glisten not so far away. Dogs bark and the mother-freaking hip-hop is louder. She works her way around the deck until she gets to the Cs.
A drawl of music leaks from inside number thirty-four and Josie peers through a gap in the curtains of the front room, can see nothing, so she knocks, lightly. Waits. She knocks again and takes out her ring of keys, checks the likely candidates and tries one. Along the deck, a young woman pushes a baby out of her flat. She must be fifteen, but looks younger, and as she passes Josie she curls her lip. The key turns and Josie opens the door, says softly, ‘Haddaway. Shawne Haddaway?’
No response.
She follows the low drone of music down the dark hall, chipboard for floor, and darkly stained in places. It could be blood. At the end of the hall, she pushes open the door and the sound of Marvin Gaye spreads joyously from a boombox on the window-ledge. ‘What’s Goin’ On.’ Between her and the music, a young man is flat on his back on a bare mattress. On the floor by his dangling hand, the rudiments of an afternoon on the crack pipe. She taps him on the shoulder and steps back, warrant card in hand. He doesn’t move.
Josie backs tenderly out of Haddaway’s bedroom, easing the door closed and looking anxiously over her shoulder. She checks the bathroom and goes into the open-plan living area, which has a rusting two-ring hob next to a sink piled high with pizza boxes and bottles of Courvoisier. On the floor is a brand-spanking AirBook with its screen up. She powers it up and immediately a screensaver of Rihanna appears. There is no end of choice for unsecured wireless connections and within seconds, Josie is scrolling through Shawne’s web history: an unglittering profile of music downloads, weaponry sites and porn.
In amongst them, Google Earth. When she hovers over the search predictors, only one item comes up. Right-clicking, her stomach turns over.
Josie and Pulford had a thing once. It was three years ago and unsatisfactory and they each laugh about it now, an unrequited petting frenzy and a wordless breakfast at a greasy spoon in Southgate, but she remembers quite vividly the few minutes Pulford spent talking about his mother. His mother who, when her only son moved to the Big Smoke, stayed put. Josie hadn’t known the place she stayed put and Pulford had to tell her it was near Newcastle.
Now, she reads ‘Whitley Bay’ and remembers.
Shawne Haddaway had summoned Google’s might down from the sky and trained a bead on 24 McIvor Street, Whitley Bay. Josie