‘We lost our granddaughter the day her mother died. The child is a criminal now,’ he had said. ‘Nothing is going to change the way she has been brought up during those formative years, and it’s best she sticks to the life she knows.’
That was it – all he’d had to say on the matter. Emma hadn’t spoken to Tasha’s family since.
Tom picked up the phone and dialled a number. It was answered almost immediately.
‘Becky, how up to speed are you in the details of the search for Natasha Joseph?’ he asked without further introduction. Becky Robinson was a detective inspector on his team and had been closest to the Joseph family during the events eight months previously.
‘Hi Tom. Just give me a sec while I turn the TV down.’ There was a brief pause as the background noise came to an abrupt end. ‘Okay – Tasha Joseph. I’ve been keeping an eye on progress – I had a look earlier today, actually. But we don’t seem to be making much headway, I’m afraid. Not a peep from anybody. Why the special interest now?’
‘I’ve just had a call from Emma. She thinks she’s seen Tasha.’ He heard an intake of breath from Becky.
‘That’s brilliant news, Tom, if it’s true. Do you think it really was her, or is it wishful thinking on Emma’s part?’
‘She seemed fairly convinced.’
‘Where was Emma when she saw her? It will help us hugely in focusing the search, and we’re running out of time. We’re lucky that we’ve had this long to try to find her.’
‘I don’t know where she was, because I’m ashamed to say I didn’t answer Emma’s call – I just listened to her message. I’m finding it hard to deal with her optimism about Tasha.’
Tom took a final mouthful of his beer.
‘That poor kid.’ Tom could hear the genuine sympathy in Becky’s voice. ‘I wonder what she’s thinking?’
‘God knows. I should imagine she’s lost, lonely, scared and probably confused about why Emma is looking for her. I’ll have a think about the best way to show Emma some restrained enthusiasm, and then I’ll call her back and find out where she saw Tasha. I’ll let you know, and let’s hope we find her.’ He ended the call and threw his beer bottle in the recycling bin.
He couldn’t ignore the fact that they needed Tasha. She was a vital witness in a trial that was due to start just one week from today.
4
Andy has gone to try to find us something to eat. Neither of us has eaten a thing all day, but I don’t feel hungry – just empty. There’s a massive hole where my belly should be and it feels as if all the water I’ve drunk is just sloshing round in there on its own. I picture it like a washing machine, splashing the water from side to side as the drum turns.
I was supposed to get food for us. I was going to try the new Sainsbury’s Local. It’s always busy, and I’ve not nicked anything from there for a few weeks. The security guy was on to me last time, I’m sure, but the shop was packed, and I got away with it. I borrowed Andy’s black baseball cap today, thinking I might not be recognised. It’s getting harder, though.
As it was, I couldn’t do it. I just had to get off the streets quickly after Emma saw me.
I wanted to talk to her – to tell her why I can’t come back and explain why I left. She says she misses me, but I find that difficult to believe. I want her to understand why I ran away, though. If I hadn’t I would have been arrested for taking Ollie. So how can I go back? It’s hopeless.
I don’t get why she’s looking for me and why she says she wants me back. I don’t know if I can trust her.
The only person I really trust is Andy, and I’ve let him down again. I’m always relying on him to feed me and I know it’s not fair. I wouldn’t have survived this long without him, though.
I met Andy a couple of months after I escaped – escaped from having to face my dad, the man who had betrayed me; escaped from the police, who were going to arrest me for everything I had done; escaped from the gang I had been living with for more than six years, who would kill me for grassing to the police – if they could find me. And escaped from Emma – the person who had done the least to hurt me, who I had hurt the most.
The weeks after I left felt like the worst of my life. They probably weren’t; I’ve had my share of terrible times. But however bad things had been in the past I had always had a home – of sorts. When I walked away from my dad and Emma’s house I had nowhere to go. No place where somebody would open the door and welcome me in – or even grunt an acknowledgement that I was actually there.
I made it to Stockport without too much bother – walking at night, keeping away from busy main roads as much as I could and finding somewhere to hide out during the day. When it was really late – the early hours of the morning kind of late – I had to dodge into gardens to hide when I saw a car coming because I knew the police would stop me if they saw me out and about at that time. But I got quite good at it. During the day I would often hide in plain sight, hanging around where there were other kids or just going to a park, and I always managed to nick something to eat from somewhere. That was the easy bit.
The hard thing was being on my own. Even living with Rory and Donna Slater – the couple who had hidden me for more than six years after I was kidnapped – had been better than having nobody. Life there wasn’t great, but there were other kids, and we helped each other. And I’d had Izzy – my friend. Thinking about her now makes me want to cry, but if I start, I won’t stop.
Stockport was okay – there are some caves up above the town where loads of homeless are living. They tolerated me, but I don’t think they liked me being around. I bet they were worried that if they were caught with a thirteen-year-old girl they would be accused of doing all sorts of stuff they hadn’t done. So I told them I wanted to go to Manchester. I pretended to have friends here, and one of them said he’d help me – which was his way of getting rid of me, I suppose. I’m used to that now.
This bloke – Bartosz he was called – loved trains. He watched them all the time and he said there was a pattern to the times an inspector or guard or whatever they’re called would board the local trains to do a ticket check. He told me which train to catch.
I was really scared, though. If I’d been caught, I’d have been done for. I bet there’s pictures of me in all the police stations, because I’m a wanted criminal. I stole a baby. I picture a poster like the ones in old films – or maybe just like the one that Emma has produced.
The train was okay, though. I made it here to Manchester, although it wasn’t much better than Stockport after all. I was still on my own.
I met Andy one day when the sun was shining. I remember that, because for once I felt warm. I’d just nicked some food from the express supermarket down in what I think of as the bottom end of Manchester. Where it joins on to Salford, I suppose. It was one of my favourite places, because the security guard was a fatty, and I knew I could run faster. But as I slid out of the door, hoping I hadn’t been spotted but not really that bothered, I got the shock of my life. This young, fit, black guy was standing in Fatty’s place, wearing a security uniform. He looked at my shocked face and knew exactly what I’d done. I set off running. I was quick and I dodged the people coming down the street – but he wasn’t about to give up. Mostly these guys run for about ten metres to make a bit of a show and then turn round and go back, defeated once more by the dregs of Manchester. But this one was on a mission, and I was losing.
I raced across the road, down a side street and into some gardens I’d never seen before. People were out enjoying the sun and stared at me as I legged it over the grass and onto the path. He was getting closer.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a boy slouching on a bench, staring at a brightly coloured flowerbed in the centre where the paths met. It was so gaudy with its reds and yellows it hurt my eyes. The boy glanced at me as I ran past, and a couple of seconds later I heard a loud shout and a clatter.
’Jesus,’ a deep voice yelled. ‘You stupid kid – I nearly had him.�
�
I dodged behind some shrubs and stopped to grab my breath. The man might not have seen where I’d gone, and I thought that if I was lucky I might be safe – thanks to the boy. I was running out of steam – I hadn’t eaten for two days.
I peered through the leaves and saw the boy on the floor, the big black guy sprawled on top of him. The guy pushed himself up and started brushing fiercely at his trousers with the pale palms of his black hands as he ripped into the kid for getting in the way.
The boy managed to wriggle into a kneeling position, and I could see blood on his face – where his cheekbone jutted out from his skinny cheek. It must have hurt. This kid probably weighed about the same as the black guy’s left leg, and his jeans hung off him as if he’d borrowed them from an older brother.
‘Sorry, mister,’ he said, his voice weak and shaking. ‘I didn’t see you coming. I didn’t mean to get in your way.’ The boy looked petrified and the man stopped for a moment and looked at him properly.
‘You’re okay, kid. Sorry I shouted. I really wanted to catch that lad, though. It’s my first day, and … Here, let me give you a pull up.’ He held out his hand, and the boy took it. He tried to look at the blood on the boy’s face, but the boy pushed his hand away.
I couldn’t hear them any more, because two women had come to sit on a bench in front of my shrub, and they were yattering. The security guy looked my way once, brushed at his trousers again, said a couple of words to the boy and walked off – back towards his shop, where no doubt he would get a hot cup of tea and a bun for his efforts.
I looked at the treasure I had managed to nick. A sausage roll. It was still warm because I’d taken it from the hot cupboard, and now that the danger was past my mouth was watering. I decided to sit where I was, hidden under a bush that had huge pink flowers and shiny leaves but which was somehow quite empty underneath, almost like a kid’s den.
The boy was walking along the path and would pass me soon. I should probably have thanked him, but I was scared of showing myself in case the man came back.
‘You can come out, you know.’ The voice was totally unlike the weak, scared version I had heard minutes earlier. There was some sort of accent too, but I didn’t know enough to be able to recognise then that it was Scottish. He told me that later.
I stopped, the sausage roll halfway to my mouth, and stayed silent.
A face appeared between the leaves. ‘Can you spare a wee bite for your rescuer?’ He pushed his way through and sat down. ‘Budge up,’ he said.
I gave him half the sausage roll.
He was even skinnier that I had first thought. As he reached out his hand to take his share of the food I noticed the bone of his wrist sticking out like a golf ball, and his fingers were ridiculously long and white with torn, chewed nails.
I realised straight away how clever the boy was, though. Despite his scrawny build, I could tell there was nothing weak or shaky about this lad – voice or otherwise.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked. ‘I’m Andy.’
‘Harry,’ I said. He looked at me, his eyebrows raised, then took a bite of the sausage roll. ‘Right you are. Harry it is, then.’
*
I’ve stopped thinking about how much I’ve let Andy down and how I’m going to make it up to him. Better to think of nothing, so I stare straight ahead and try to empty my mind of bad thoughts. My attempt at peace doesn’t last long, though. I hear footsteps coming down the tunnel, walking quickly as if somebody knows exactly where they are going and tiny prickles of fear run up my arms. I’ve got nobody here to protect me.
I huddle down, pulling a blanket we found a couple of days ago around my shoulders. I tug the visor of Andy’s cap down as far as I can. It might be that man again – the one who says there’s a reward for finding me. But he’s walking quickly – so if it’s him, he knows where he’s heading – straight to me.
The footsteps stop, right in front of me. But I don’t look up.
‘Hey, Harry – it’s okay. It’s only me. I got us some grub.’
Andy.
I let out my breath.
‘It’s fresh grub, too. I was dead lucky. Some guy had all his shopping in one of those free carrier bags and the handle broke. Everything ended up on the pavement – so I helped him pick it up. When he wasn’t looking, I managed to grab a pack of sandwiches and shove ’em in my bag. I felt mean, though, ’cos he could see I was poor – probably homeless – and he gave me a quid for helping him. And I’d just nicked his bloody sandwich.’
It’s typical of Andy to bring me half of everything he gets. He could have scoffed the lot, and I would never have known. But he wouldn’t do that. It’s like he needs to protect me, to look after me. It seems to make him happy for some reason, and it feels good to me.
We don’t talk about the past. He pretends to believe I’m called Harry, even though everything he needs to know about me is printed on flyers lying all over the streets of Manchester, and Andy has got eyes. Even with my dark, cropped hair, my face is the same. I keep it dirty, and most people don’t bother to look at me: scruffy urchin boy with a filthy neck – why would anybody look twice? Unless it’s social services, and I can spot them a mile off. It’s the shoes.
So he knows I’m a thirteen-year-old girl; that my name is Tasha Joseph; that I’ve run away from home. But it was never my home. Not really. And the flyers tell only a small part of the truth.
Andy passes me an old a plastic bottle filled with water from a tap in a public toilet.
‘You okay now?’ he asks.
I’d told him I wasn’t feeling good and that’s why I hadn’t got any food. But I need to tell him the truth. It’s not fair to lie.
‘I’m sorry, Andy. I wasn’t ill – I just felt awful ’cos I saw Emma.’ He knows who Emma is; I told him her name last night. Everybody’s seen her because she’s always shouting about Tasha Joseph, about how she wants her to come home and how her baby brother is missing her. I don’t believe it. She’s lying.
Andy’s gone quiet. Does that mean he’s mad at me? I don’t want him to leave me. I need him. He’s opening the sandwich packet, and my belly feels like it’s doing backflips.
Silently he hands me one of the two sandwiches and I take a huge mouthful.
I feel my nostrils flare and my mouth pulls down at the corners. It’s an automatic reaction, and I think Andy will be cross with me because I’m ungrateful. But he just laughs.
‘Sorry – not my choice,’ he says with his mouth full. ‘It’s mingin’. That guy obviously has weird taste in sandwiches.’
‘What is it?’
Andy passes me the packet. ‘Falafel, spinach and tomato,’ I read from the label. ‘What the hell’s a falafel?’
He just shrugs, and we both take another mouthful, wishing it was cheese, or tuna or something we’ve tasted before. But it’s food.
We don’t speak again until the sandwich has all gone, and I wait. I know he’s got something to say.
‘I saw Emma in town today too. I was looking for her.’
I stare at him. I’m confused. Why would he go looking for Emma?
‘I wanted to hear what she had to say about the reward – the five thousand pounds that’s being offered for you.’
I say nothing. Does he mean he was going to turn me in – take the full reward himself?
‘Harry,’ he says. ‘Emma said nothing about no reward. She didn’t mention it.’
‘So?’
‘So don’t you think it’s funny that if she’s really offering a reward for you, she doesn’t bother to mention it when she has a crowd of very likely customers for her money right in front of her? She offers cakes and all sorts if people will try to find you, but I asked around. She’s never offered money.’
I look at Andy. He doesn’t have to say it, but I know he will anyway.
‘If Emma’s not offering the money, and we know it’s not the police because they just wouldn’t, who the hell is it, Harry? Who wants to find you s
o bad that they’re offering five bloody grand for you?’
I say nothing. I know the answer; I just refuse to say the name out loud.
5
‘Emma, hi. It’s Tom. Sorry it’s taken me a while to get back to you.’
‘Oh Tom, thanks so much for calling. I know how busy you are with work and stuff, so I’m sorry to bother you.’
Tom felt another pang of guilt.
‘Did you hear the message – that I’ve seen Tasha?’ Emma asked, the excitement shining in her voice. ‘That means we know she’s in Manchester – in the centre. That’s good, isn’t it? If we can narrow down the search it should be easier to find her, shouldn’t it?’
‘It certainly should be easier than not knowing which town she’s in, yes.’
Before calling Emma, Tom had spent half an hour trying to come up with a strategy to deal with her expectations, but he had failed miserably. He felt doubly guilty because he should be seeing more of her now – at least, more of Ollie.
Three months after the trauma of Ollie being abducted, Emma had decided to have him christened. She had asked Tom to be Ollie’s sole godparent, and he had been very happy to accept.
It was during the christening that she had asked if he could spare an hour after the other guests had left.
‘I’ve got something to ask you, Tom, and please feel free to say no.’
Tom had been sure it was going to be something to do with Tasha, but he was wrong.
‘I’m so pleased you agreed to be Ollie’s godfather, but I can’t help thinking about what would happen to him if I was ill or, worse case, if I died. He’d be an orphan. He couldn’t go to my dad in Australia – his lifestyle would never suit a baby or a little boy, and there’s nobody else in my family that I would consider to be a good parent.’ Emma had paused and taken a sip of her wine as if she needed courage. ‘But you are a good parent, Tom. I’ve seen you with Lucy, and you’re so balanced. You let her think for herself, and try to guide her, but you never sound like a dictator.’
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