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  “That’s one of the reasons I got out,” says Chrissie.

  “Believe me, love, it’s worse than ever now.”

  “So, anyway, that’s why I came up with the pretend overdose idea,” I say, eager to finish before this pair get sidetracked with internal politics.

  “Oh, what happened?” says Chrissie, who clearly hasn’t heard the details of the escape. I’m about to answer when Fern takes charge of the story.

  “Quite clever, actually. He smuggled bits and pieces in and made Edona up to look like she’d OD’ed on heroin, then he conned the pimps into driving them to the hospital. What a cheek, eh? Soon as they got there the two of them did a runner!” She explodes with laughter. After a second Sam and Chrissie join in, a bit less boisterously. This isn’t going too bad for me after all. I would like to have impressed them with all the specifics of my careful planning, not to mention bravery under fire (almost), but I can’t complain about this result. I’m sure I can feel Sam moving closer in to me on the sofa. Even Chrissie’s looking at me with a certain warmth now.

  While Fern subsides, composing herself with another draught from the mug, Sam takes the chance to ask her, “What can we do to help Edona? She told me she wants to stay in this country, at least for a while, so she can make some money to help her family. I mean, legally make money, not... you know.”

  Fern puts her mug back and stays leaning forward, placing outstretched fingers on the coffee table as if she’s about to get up and leave (which she isn’t) or start laying the law down (which she is.)

  “Edona is a minor and, technically speaking, an illegal immigrant. To be honest, I should be taking her away with me right now, except there’s no safe accommodation set up, no specialist foster care... or I should be handing her over for the police to deal with.” I turn to Sam, expecting some reaction. This isn’t what we’re wanting to hear – we’ve invited in the child-snatchers. But Sam stays calm, listening carefully as Fern continues. “That’s why this conversation is strictly off the record. I’m not here, if you get my drift, and I’ve never heard of anybody called Edona.”

  “Naturally, we respect that completely,” Chrissie says. “So what’s the score, suppose we go down the official route?”

  “Number one, she gets arrested and deported back to her own country.”

  Stung by the stark way Fern says it, I’m up in arms for Edona. “Come on, that can’t happen. That way she’s going to walk straight back into trouble, not to mention what the Albanian mafia or whatever’s going to do to her family.”

  “Well, the family now, that’s another kettle of fish,” says Fern, raising a forefinger.

  “How do you mean?”

  “I’m not convinced they really expected her to be going to a restaurant job in Italy. You know, a huge percentage of women trafficked from Albania are under eighteen, and you’d be surprised how many of them are actually sold by their families.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “Wish I was. That’s what poverty does to people.” Fern pauses, seeming to reflect on this herself for a moment, then resumes. “Even if the family weren’t involved in her abduction, there’s another possible problem.”

  She’s a real joy-bringer this woman. “What’s that?”

  “It’s to do with the culture. The Canon, I think it’s called, something like that, sort of the traditional law. Not great for the female of the species. If Edona goes home and lets on what’s happened to her there’s a fair chance she’ll be banished from the family, maybe even handed over to the traffickers. Once a woman has been dishonoured there’s no going back for her, even if it’s no fault of her own. That’s the way it is.”

  Chrissie chips in, “But doesn’t all this strengthen the case for Edona to stay here? Apply for asylum? Surely it’s all about what’s best for the child, isn’t it? That was the mantra when I was working.”

  “Still is, supposedly.” says Fern “The UN Convention on the Rights of the Child, all that. Trouble is, our caring government signed a Reservation on the charter in relation to children under immigration control, so there’s no protection for them.”

  I’ve stopped being angry with Fern now – there’s too many other buggers to be mad about. “That’s scandalous!”

  “Tell me about it. Better still, tell your listeners. Get a campaign up. Although frankly...” says Fern, world-weary, “I suspect most of them couldn’t give a toss. They’ll be quite happy seeing another illegal immigrant sent back where they came from.”

  Sam has been quiet for a while. Now she leans forward to get Fern’s attention. “You know you were saying before about there not being any specialist foster care for dealing with somebody like Edona? I know this might sound stupid, but, well... could we not step in? You know, volunteer to foster her until she’s old enough to deal with things herself.”

  Fern straightens up, glances at me as she says to Sam, “We being...?”

  “Me and Marc, yeah.”

  I have no time to assimilate this idea because Fern immediately pulls a sour face, looks from me to Sam and says, “Frankly, I think that’s a non-starter. To be brutally honest...” (Frank and brutally honest, I sense there’s no holding back here) “I suspect your application would fall at the first hurdle. The assessment criteria they use are very strict. One big no-no would be Marc’s... well, on the face of it, fairly compromising position over where and how he met Edona.”

  I’m back on the defensive. “Look, I explained how it happened...”

  “Absolutely, you don’t have to persuade me. I’m just telling it like it is, that’s all. Anything that seems however faintly... I’m not saying dodgy, but just the whiff of the thing...”

  Even Fern can’t carry on in face of the withering look I’m giving her, and there’s an embarrassed silence around the room until Chrissie breaks it by saying, “Well, what are we supposed to do with the poor lass? Seems to me you’re saying she’s going to have to go straight back home and probably get, I don’t know, recycled as a prostitute.”

  Fern shows her open palms and calms the class while she rediscovers her speaking voice. “You asked me for the options, I’m giving you them as far as I can without looking further into it. Listen, I’m on the case and I’m on your side, believe me. I know where you’re coming from. There’s a few things I’ve got to get up to speed on. If memory serves, Save the Children might have something going in Albania. There’s the NSPCC to check out, ECPAT...”

  “What’s ECPAT?” Sam asks.

  “Stands for... it’s... End Child Prostitution And Trafficking. There’s a bit on the end. End Child Prostitution and Trafficking for Sexual Purposes. I think that’s right.

  “You mean there’s a whole organisation devoted to that one issue?”

  “There’s a whole network. International.”

  “Christ, it must be one hell of a problem,” Sam glances at me as she says it, and I’m struggling to know whether she’s including me in the conversation or the problem.

  “Trust me, there’s a lot of Edonas,” says Fern, reassuring us of the world’s depravity. I’m still in discussion with myself about Sam’s looks and glances. She can’t mean me, can she, not after she’s just volunteered my services as a foster parent. Our services.

  Fern studies her watch, big chunky strap. I catch myself wondering if she’s a lesbian and colour up as if I’ve said it out loud.

  “Sorry, I’m going to have to run,” she announces, a mite too importantly. “I’ll do a bit of digging and come back to you soonest, Chris.”

  “Is Edona OK with me just now?”

  “Edona who? Don’t know, don’t want to know. We’ll just see what comes out in the wash, eh?”

  “I’ll take that as a yes, then,” says Chrissie, still a bit confused. So am I. On balance I’m giving Fern the benefit of the doubt, but part of me wants to smuggle Edona away again.

  “Did you mean what you said to Fern?” I ask Sam, almost as soon as we get into the car. (She’s coming home
with me, which is a huge relief. For a while back there I had the feeling she was going to ask her sister to take her in as well as Edona.)

  “About what?”

  “About us offering to be Edona’s foster parents?”

  “If it means keeping her safe, yes.”

  Safe. Fern might have me down as a potential sexual predator but Sam, who holds the damning evidence, has chosen to trust me. Halleluiah.

  “What are you smiling at?” she says.

  “Mmm, just at the thought, I suppose. The idea of being a parent at all, never mind to someone nearly sixteen. You’d have had to be a child bride yourself. Under-age, actually.”

  “It was to try and help her out, that’s all. Just an idea.”

  “A nice idea. Mam and Dad, eh? I kinda like it.”

  “Hmmm.” I guess she doesn’t want me to pursue the subject. I steal a glimpse at her as I’m stopped at the lights, but she’s pretty closed off. I’m going to have to start getting used to this new inscrutable Sam.

  “Oh,” she says as I signal left. “We need to get some shopping in. There’s nothing in the fridge.”

  “Yeah, sorry about that. I’ve been a bit busy.”

  “Go the coast road way. Tesco is nearest from here.”

  “Are you sure? We’ll be going back on ourselves.” Alarm bells ringing immediately.

  “Still be quickest, though.”

  “OK, no sweat.” Which is a lie. I can already feel a slight prickle of perspiration as I switch lanes and head towards the coast road. Part of me recognises it’s an irrational fear, brought on by association. There’s no logical reason why I should bump into Emmanuel or Stefan at this particular Tesco at six o’ clock in the evening. They’d be just as likely, if they shop at all, to be in their local branch of Sainsbury or Asda. Netto, maybe. But the road to the store and the car park in front of it are so linked in my mind with these guys that I’m expecting the silver Beemer to cut across my bows any moment.

  Naturally I don’t admit this to Sam, not wanting to feed her fears, and after we get to the supermarket unscathed I make every effort to resist moving like a British soldier in Baghdad while she browses the shelves for provisions. Nothing happens, but the adrenaline has my brain racing on the journey back to the flat and I start stressing about my appointment at Prince Albert Road on Thursday afternoon. Emmanuel seems to be connected with the house in some way; suppose he’s set a trap to catch me? It’s another illogical fear - neither he nor anybody else I’ve come across in my extra-curricular activities has any clue that would make the link between my three separate personae of DJ Marc Niven, doctor/radiologist Oliver Dunn and designer Tom Etherington – or have they? I’ve learned a lot through behind-the-scenes detective work; what’s to say they haven’t too?

  I’m still restless when we return to the flat, and to be honest it’s obvious that both Sam and I are feeling strange and uncomfortable with each other here, just the two of us now back in the place that was at the heart of our post-Linda, pre-Anji relationship, but also where we had the row that split us up, and the bizarre scene with a half-naked runaway girl. Sam finds distraction in cooking supper. Once I’ve set the table I’m at a loose end, hovering around aimlessly in an unreconstructed male sort of way, until I decide on something I need to do and, as a cover, say to Sam, “Do I have time for a run before we eat?”

  “A run? You haven’t done that for a long time.”

  “Trying to get back in shape, that’s all. You said I was a sight.”

  “’Course, not a problem. The meal will be half-an-hour yet.”

  My guess is she’s glad of the chance to ease the awkwardness between us and settle down into her space before we eat. It’s a release for me as well, but I have another ulterior motive for leaving the flat. I have a destination.

  I’m usually pretty good at remembering places I’ve been to just once, so even in the dark and on foot I find my way to Oliver’s estate in just ten minutes. I do have some anxiety passing a couple of hoodies slouched at an unlit corner, worried they might take umbrage at this middle-class ponce daring to jog across their patch, and I’m relieved not to hear chasing footsteps as I slow down to pick out Ollie’s house near the end of the cul-de-sac. Not surprisingly, the door isn’t exactly opened with alacrity after I knock. In fact, I can hear signs of consternation from inside, Oliver and his mam debating whether to believe the evidence of their ears and agree that somebody has come calling on them at this time of night, and whether to risk opening up.

  “Who is it?” I hear eventually from Mrs Dunn on the other side of the door.

  “It’s Marc, Mrs Dunn. Marc Niven. Could I have a quick word with Oliver?”

  A bolt is drawn back and there is Ollie, faith in humanity immediately restored, beaming a welcome, his mother at his elbow looking decidedly more circumspect. “Come in, Marc,” he says, bubbling. “I can make you a cup of tea or a cup of coffee.” It occurs to me that these are lines he must practise at some Independent Living course.

  “Thanks, Ollie, no, I’ve only got a minute. I’ve come to ask if you’ll do me a favour.”

  He pulls the door open wider to let me in. His mother is like a limpet at his side, inadvertently blocking my way to the living-room, so we all stand immobile until she pokes at him, saying, “Shut that door, you’re freezing the house out.” Then she turns her back on us and shuffles into the warmth inside, probably expecting us to follow her. Instead I grab Ollie’s elbow as he closes the door and draw him near to me, the two of us crowding the tiny kitchen space next to the sink.

  “I don’t want your mam to hear this,” I whisper. “Ollie, do you know what a lookout is?”

  “Like looking out the window?”

  “No, I mean looking out for a person. You know, I look out for you, you look out for me.”

  “Like looking after somebody?”

  “Sort of, yeah. But a bit like guarding them as well, in case people are after them.”

  “Yeah, like a bodyguard. Like Madonna has.”

  “I suppose.” I wonder if Madonna is another of Ollie’s celebrity obsessions. “Anyway, I’ve come to ask if you could maybe do a lookout job for me, Thursday afternoon.”

  Ollie looks perplexed at first, then grins. “Are we going back to where the car crash was? I can look out for the policeman.”

  “No, but it’s like that. You remember Amina, who got the Valentine message?”

  “Yeah, who Hassan said.”

  “That’s it. Well, I’m going to her house on Thursday. There’s some people I need you to look out for, just in case. I need you to watch the house while I’m in there, but secretly. We don’t want to let anybody know you’re watching.”

  “I can do my leaflets,” says Oliver, brightly.

  “What?”

  “Show you.” He sidles past to get to a cupboard built into the wall next to the living-room door, calling “All right, Mam?” on the way. There’s no answer. I take a quick peek into the room while Ollie is on his knees in the cupboard. Mrs Dunn, ensconced in her chair with her head on one side, is dozing. Oliver crawls out with what looks like a green plastic pouch. He puts it over his shoulder in the manner of a newspaper boy and pulls out a brightly coloured brochure which he presents to me proudly. It’s an advertisement for conservatories and double glazing, with plenty of examples and quotes from satisfied (no, delighted) customers.

  “I didn’t know you had a job. When do you do these?”

  “When the van comes. I’m my own boss, Marc.” He points to the inside of the cupboard door, where a newspaper cutting is sellotaped grubbily. It reads: Be your own boss. Deliver leaflets and get paid. The more you drop, the more you earn. I’m betting you’d be ready to drop dead by the time you earn anything significant, but Oliver is made-up to be a bread-winner, however few the loaves he can buy with his wages.

  He’s not so daft, though, my wide-bellied friend, as I keep discovering. He’s had the nous to work out this could be the perfect cover f
or our purposes, allowing him to hang around Amina’s street for quite a while without drawing undue attention to himself. We spend the next few minutes discussing the details and by the time I hit the road back to the flat I’m feeling a tad less alone in my search for the secret behind the door of 110 Prince Albert Road. All right, I’m nagged by the doubt that in adding a little protection for myself I could be exposing Oliver, but the risk is minimal, and he’s so obviously thrilled to be part of what I’m doing that I don’t feel I’m exploiting his good nature. He probably hasn’t had so much fun in years.

  I have a vestige of guilt to do with keeping Sam out of this particular loop, but it’s reduced by the notion that it’s for her own security, and it doesn’t add much to the weight already on my conscience, or to the slight uneasiness that neither of us can yet shake off, even while we seem to be definitively back together.

  While I’ve been away Sam has prepared and cooked lamb cutlets, which we settle down to enjoy with a more expensive red wine than we’d normally allow ourselves, especially so early in the week, in unspoken recognition that this is a special occasion. We both know we need to let go of things, cast them off, and start a new journey, but neither of us seem able to make that explicit. It’s as if we’re launching a new boat but prefer to slip away quietly from the harbour, hoping the debris of the past will float off behind us, not stick around to clog up the engine.

  After a month living out of tins and packets, relieved by the occasional takeaway and too many Big Macs, this meal is manna to me, served by an angel. Without specifically deciding to, we make it a genuine dining experience, sitting together at the table, not in our usual position in front of the TV balancing plates on our knees and fishing wine glasses from the floor. Candles would be too obvious – and anyway there aren’t any in the flat – but I do tilt the shade on the lamp, choose the music carefully and lower the volume below quiet conversation level.