Jazz did not like facing out into the street. She felt ex-posed. There were eyes upon her, and she expected an Uncle to emerge from the crowd at any moment and bury a knife in her gut. They'd go for Cadge too, of course, and drag him into some shop doorway, and the last thing she'd see would be the Uncle's face pressed up close to hers, the last thing she'd smell would be his garlic breath, and he'd pant in excitement as her blood pulsed over his hand.
Her murder would be quick and quiet, a brief distur-bance in a street filled with everyone minding their own business. London was like that. So many people pressed so closely together, and the more people there were, the more alone she felt. Nobody seemed to pay attention to anyone out here. If the street was virtually deserted, passersby would nod a brief hello, maybe give a smile, and if there was only her and someone else, they'd pause for a chat. But in crowds like this, everyone kept to themselves. The more people there were, the less human they seemed to be.
So she looked in shop windows and studied the reflec-tions of the street behind her. Cadge nattered on, pointing out things in the window displays —CDs here, clothes there, books and shoes and sexy lingerie—but Jazz's eyes were al-ways searching beyond these things. Was that a man in a black suit staring at her back from across the road? She shifted sideways, and no, it was just the shadow thrown by a slowly closing coffee-shop door. They walked to another shop, and Jazz looked past the display of hats and handbags at the reflection of a man standing motionless behind her. Cadge made some quip about Hattie not being here, and Jazz lowered her head and looked at the reflection. Still not moving, still staring across the road, his immobility in such a bustling street marked him.
Like picking a scab, the urge to turn was impossible to resist. But the man was only a mannequin placed on the pavement outside a clothes shop. Its arm was raised, finger pointing at her accusingly. In its blank pink face she saw a hundred expressions she did not like.
Someone nudged into her and passed by without apolo-gizing.
Windows lined the buildings above her, any one of them home to an enemy.
"Cadge, let's get a drink," she said. "Got half an hour yet."
"Sure!" He grabbed her hand and headed for a newsagent's stall, but she held back and nodded across the street.
"Coffee," she said. "Somewhere inside."
"Oh." He looked grave for a second, then smiled and nodded. As they dodged traffic across the street, he held her around the waist and leaned in close. "It was like this for me the first few times back up,"
he said.
"Like what?" Jazz asked. They reached the pavement and negotiated the equally busy streams of human traffic.
Cadge looked up at the ribbon of gray sky between rooftops. "Too exposed."
She felt a rush of affection for Cadge then, and she opened the coffee-shop door and motioned him in first.
Harry always sent them up with some money. Jazz had a cappuccino and Cadge a milk shake, and they drank them quickly.
"So what's your story, Cadge?" she asked. "I feel so self-ish. Things are bad for me, but I've never asked about you or any of the others, and that's bad too."
"Don't feel guilty," he said over the top of his glass, and she sensed a maturity in him then, something that belied his outward image. He suddenly reminded her of herself at that age. "My story ain't too much fun to tell either."
Jazz sipped her coffee and glanced around the busy cof-fee shop. Everyone in their own world, nobody looking at them, and she no longer felt so out of place. She glanced at her watch. "We've got time."
"Well..." He sucked up more milk shake through his straw, then licked his lips. "To be honest, it sounds like a really bad soap. 'Cept it ain't. It was real lives ruined, and no one to watch but me. See... I came home from school one day and found my dad and auntie...you know. Doing it." Thought they hadn't heard me, but as I was creeping out, Dad ran downstairs an' caught me. Gave me the beatin' of me life.
Never was one to hold back with his fists, my dad. So he beat me, and my auntie came downstairs without clothes on, tried to stop 'im, and he hit her too. Just smacked her one in the eye and she fell down, all naked and that. Mum came home later —she'd already heard what had 'ap-pened from her sister—and she and Dad had a row. Real screaming, shouting match right in front of me, while I held a cold flannel against my mouth and cheek where he'd hit me. I thought he'd hit her too, but he didn't, and then she ran away.
Just...left." He shook his head, looking down at the scarred timber table, as though searching for clues to his mother's whereabouts in the scratched names.
"What about your dad?"
"Kicked me out. Said he'd never wanted me, I'd ruined his life, and told me to piss off an' ruin someone else's."
"Fucking hell, Cadge."
He grinned. "Told you. Not much fun." He noisily sucked up the dregs of his drink, and a few eyes turned their way.
"Just fucked-up adults, Cadge, that's all. They didn't mean it, I'm sure."
"Maybe not Mum," he said. "Maybe not her." He seemed to drift away for a time. Jazz let him. She finished her drink and scanned the street outside. Tourists, office workers —she could tell them apart with ease—and she spent a couple of minutes picking out people who'd have fat wallets. She seemed to be a natural at this thieving lark. Her mum had always told her to be observant, cautious, secre-tive.
She gasped and closed her eyes, catching a whiff of perfume that reminded her of so much. Waking from nightmares and she's there for me, ready to calm and soothe... Arriving home from school and she gives me a kiss, and I can always sense her re-lief that I'm okay... Passing her bedroom in the morning, seeing her staring into the mirror, smelling that perfume she always used and feeling both contented and sad...
"What is it?" Cadge asked. His hand closed around her upper arm, warm and protective.
Jazz opened her eyes. "Beautiful," she said. "Perfume my mum always wore." She glanced around and saw a tall, smart woman just sitting down at a table. Perhaps she had a daughter too, and perhaps her daughter would not appreci-ate her fully until she was gone.
"Beautiful," Cadge said. "That's something to hold on to, Jazz."
She nodded. "It is. Come on, let's go."
"Yeah." He slipped from the stool and grabbed her hand, and Jazz gave him a brief squeeze. He beamed. "Yeah! This'll be fun."
They exited the shop and turned left, and the crush of pedestrians forced Cadge to let go of her hand.
Jazz weaved through the people, head down but eyes always looking for-ward.
The chemist was on a corner at the T-junction of two streets. A pub took up the opposite corner, one of those old London boozers with leaded stained-glass windows and his-tory oozing from every glazed brick. There was not quite so much bustle here, and a woman smiled thinly at Jazz as she walked by. What does she see? Jazz thought. She'd come topside that morning wearing nondescript jeans, a baggy T-shirt, and a denim jacket, the clothes worn but not tatty. Why did she smile? Jazz turned and watched the woman walking away, and Cadge frowned a question.
"Nothing," Jazz said.
"Calm down," Cadge said. "You know how it'll go. Take it easy. This is what I'm good at. Just follow my lead." With those few words, Cadge took charge. He glanced at his watch, listened for the sound he was waiting for —raised voices—and then walked past Jazz and approached the shop.
Timing was crucial, and Jazz marveled at how perfectly it flowed.
Hattie ran from the shop, screeching and scattering packets and bags behind her: toothpaste, throat lozenges, corn plasters, and sun cream. She darted straight across the road and pelted down the street, waving a bag over her head.