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“Don’t worry, I’ll take my phone – she called the mobile last time, so that’s the number she’ll use.”

  The run gives me the chance to think through the developments of the past few days, and I suppose it’s the quickening of my pulse rate as I pound the streets that starts me off mentally plotting the changes in graph form, with Sam’s leaving as the origin. There’s the life-line, which is my physical well-being, or rather the danger to it. At the start the only threat was self-neglect and the abuse I was giving my body through drinking too much and getting generally run down and unfit. The graph in my head registers the blip of shock on Valentine’s night when I realised that I might have missed a suicide’s cry for help, but the first jag of real danger coincides with meeting Emmanuel, the line rising from there and reaching a peak on the night I carried out my plan to rescue Edona. It dips slightly after the car chase, (with another sharp point marking the blowout later) but the line gets thicker with Amina’s warning, and it’s maintaining a consistently high level – at what I’d call the fear-mark – right now, despite any reassuring noises the police are making.

  There’s the heart-line of emotions, passions – love, if you will. This is intricate, the one that shows most annotations and variations, starting in a trough when Sam left me and digging down deeper as my failure to cope became more and more apparent. My attempts at lifting myself out of the despond, hitting on Marni and flirting with other assorted females, ultimately had the opposite effect and sapped my vitality. Ironically it was my meeting Edona – for all the sordid circumstances and the details of her distressing story – that stopped the slide, rebuilt me emotionally. I’d go so far as to say that little lost Albanian girl restored my capacity to love. (Note for the chart: libido suppressed, heart expanded.) The line goes seismic at the point where Sam suddenly re-appeared, face to face with the semi-naked Edona. Emerging from the shockwave, the graph has started to log the slow progress of a recovering patient, on an upward trend but not without its swoops and dips.

  The soul-line almost exactly matches the heart-line, dangerously low from the date of Sam’s departure and descending to critical. The graph clinically records the damage to my pride and ego caused by the various rebuffs I’ve had along the way and especially my fall from grace at work. Again the change to an upward curve is marked from my first encounter with Edona, and it’s still generally rising, if a bit wobbly. I’m beginning to believe in myself again, worries and fears notwithstanding. Part of me is nourishing the idea that if this dangerous affair should turn out well I might even regain my local hero status. Or better.

  A larger bunch of no-hopers than I came across last time is camped near the cut that leads into the area of the estate where Ollie lives. I can make out the glow of cigarettes and the shapes of family-sized pop bottles passed between them, with god-knows-what inside. There’s not the space to give the group a wide berth, so I pick up speed before I reach them – last time, my acceleration was late enough to look suspiciously like running away. As I gallop past, one voice yells out, Fuck me! and another follows up with, Cost you, like! which could be the best joke of the year, judging by the cackle of laughter it sets off. What strikes me is that the first voice, raucous as a football rattle, is unquestionably female.

  Ollie is prompt in unlocking the door on this occasion, as if he’s expecting me. Which I find he is, having just come off the phone to Sam. He rang to tell her his mam finally got a date for her operation. “She asked me to let her know, Marc, that’s why I done it,” he says. Once again Oliver is showing more tact than people give him credit for, reading my expression and feeling he needs to excuse himself for being so presumptuous. His interpretation is spot on – I’m unreasonably pissed off that he’d called Sam on our unlisted number - though of course I pretend otherwise.

  “No sweat, Oliver, thanks for keeping us up to speed. When’s the big day?”

  “On Tuesday. Would you like to see the letter what came, Marc?” He starts to make his way into the living-room, but I stop him with a touch on the arm.

  “No need for that, Ollie, don’t want to disturb your mother. I’m sure Sam’s got all the details.” I take his camera from the pocket of my training top, “Here, I brought this back for you,” and Ollie accepts it like a kid being given a new toy.

  “Thanks, Marc.”

  “Thanks for lending me it, I know what it means to you.” Now I’m watching him for give-away expressions, but Ollie doesn’t react, just opens the cupboard door to stuff the camera into the pocket of the coat that’s hanging there with his delivery bag. “Keep it in a safe place, eh?” I say, but still nothing. He moves into his hospitality ritual once he’s closed the cupboard door.

  “Would you like a cup of tea or a cup of coffee, Marc?”

  “No thanks, I’ll have to get back.” A day or two ago I would have been happier to spend time with Ollie than I am now. Like it or not, he’s gone down in my estimation.

  “Has Amina called you up yet?” I’m wrong-footed by the question, simply not anticipating it, even though of course Ollie was party to what went on at Prince Albert Road. I’m not sure how to answer. It was me who asked for his help, he has every right to know what’s going on. But I have visions of his mother, sitting in a hospital ward, spilling the beans to all and sundry.

  “Er, I hope she’ll be calling soon,” I tell him, not convincingly, though it’s not an outright lie.

  “Let me know when you hear anything.” Almost certainly what Sam would have said about the hospital appointment, now rote-learned and absorbed into Oliver’s stilted social vocabulary.

  “I will. Give my regards to your mam.” There’s another stock phrase for him try out some time.

  The group that was squatting at the far end of the estate seems to have disbanded, a relief to me since there’s no other obvious way out. The street, though, is not quite deserted. As I walk past a gable end, there’s a flick of a lighter. Someone leaning against the wall. My attention is caught by the face of the smoker illuminated briefly as she draws at the flame. Almost-attractive urchin looks, marred by acne; straggly, two-tone hair. She lets the flame burn longer than she needs for lighting the cigarette while she watches me looking at her then, metallically, “What you staring at, you fucking perv?”

  “No, I’m not, sorry. Thought you were someone I knew.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  Curiosity gets the better of me. “You know Oliver Dunn, don’t you?”

  “Oh, yeah, he’s my favourite spakker.” She gives me a gratuitous snort of contempt. “Dickhead. What you been doing in there, tossing him off?”

  “Funny you should say that. I was wondering...”

  “Oh, want a wank, do ya?”

  “No, don’t be stupid. That’s not what I...”

  “Hey, lads,” She flattens her cheek against the brick wall, calling out. “Got a right wanker here!”

  Before I can move away, three youths appear round the corner of the house that the girl is leaning against, cutting off my exit. Somewhere between sixteen and nineteen years old, they’re an alarming sight, with one in particular, bottle in hand, towering over my head as he steps between me and the girl. He prods me once on the shoulder with his free hand. “Who the fuck are you?”

  “Nobody, I’m just...”

  “Nobody, right. You trying to tap up my lass?”

  “’Course not. Don’t be silly.”

  “Ooh, don’t be silly,” another whines in my ear, mimicking.

  The big one persists with the questions. “What you doing round here? You’re not from round here.”

  “He’s a friend o’ the retard,” the girl supplies. “Ollie.”

  “Oh, Ollie, we like Ollie, don’t we? He’s a good lad.”

  “Quality,” says somebody behind me. I don’t know whether he’s being ironic, but I’m faintly reassured. Which lasts about a second.

  “So what are you fucking him about for?” says the big lad, pushing me again.

  “Get off.
I’m not fucking him about.”

  “’Course y’are, s’obvious. Getting him to suck your dick. You know what he is, Ollie? He’s a vulnerable person. Ever heard that word, vulnerable?”

  “Yes,” though I think he’s addressing his group as much as me. Showing off his cleverness.

  “Wanna get reported?”

  “Eh?”

  “Don’t answer me back.” He flicks at my cheek with the back of his fingers. “I’m sick of you answering me back. Gi’ me fifty quid or I’ll report you for doing Ollie.”

  “I’ve done nothing to Ollie.”

  “I said, gi’ me fifty quid!”

  “I haven’t got fifty quid. I haven’t got any money at all.” Which is true. Standing exposed in my running gear, I’m bitterly regretting that. I’d happily buy off their attentions.

  “Look in his pockets.” The other two lads grab me from behind by both arms, while the girl dives into the pockets of my training top, emerging with the mobile phone.

  “Nice.” She studies it for a moment, then points it at my face. A flash lights up the dark street. The girls looks at the result on screen before she pockets the phone in the back of her jeans.

  “Give us that back,” I hiss at her, straining to get loose. “Seriously, I’ve got to have it back. I’ll pay you for it.”

  “What with, your knob end?” she says, and flashes a V sign, then grabs her boyfriend by the arm for protection as they walk off up the street, leaving me hanging in the grip of their two mates.

  “Police! Thief!” I yell at top of my voice. The big guy turns, takes a run up, and buries a foot into my crotch. I slump with the pain. The other two lads let me drop into the gutter, winded, and run to catch up with the couple sprinting away in the darkness. One lets out a loud yee-hah as he goes.

  I lie fighting for breath, my mouth working like a baby searching for the teat, trying to suck in air. When it comes at last my relief gives in to the ache in my pit. I struggle onto my knees, head down, holding in the pain, clutching at my balls. I must be crouched like this on the pavement, heaving, for five minutes or more, with no-one coming near. When the deeper breaths come my brain starts working again, or rather panicking. My mobile, Amina’s lifeline, is gone. She could be ringing right now. Christ, they might call her back, laughing down the phone while Amina, caught in the act, is staring at the wild eyes of her gaolers.

  Oh, surely they wouldn’t answer a phone they’ve stolen? They’ll leave it to ring, or switch it off. Amina, not able to get through, will try the landline. I’ll have to warn Sam. I force myself to my feet and make my way back to Oliver’s, breathing a little less laboured by the time I get there. Ollie and his mam, not expecting more visitors, have reverted to fortress mode, and more minutes have passed by the time the bolt is drawn back and I hear Ollie’s cheerful, surprised, “Oh, hiya Marc.”

  “Could I please use your phone?”

  “’Course you can. Would you like a cup of tea, or cup of coffee, Marc?”

  I can’t match the Dunns’ politeness, brushing past the pair of them on my way to the telephone. Our line is engaged. Is it Amina? More likely Sam making her peace with her sister while she waits for my return. All the while she’s talking Amina could be desperate to get through, but I can’t alert Sam on her mobile because Amina has it. Nor can I ring DI Guthrie’s direct line - his number’s stored in the memory of my mobile. Communication stalemate. Should I ring 999? How long would they take to get here and what could they do? What sort of unwanted fuss will it kick up, when we’re all trying to be so discreet? Shit. Why did I let my eyes meet that girl’s as I passed? Why did I stop and talk to her?

  “Ollie, that girl in your camera, the local girl? Who is she? What’s her address?”

  “Who, Marc?”

  “You know, those pictures you’ve got of...” I glance sideways at Mrs Dunn, back in her usual armchair. “Here, I’ll show you.” I gesture for Ollie to follow as I dash into the kitchen and display more bad manners, opening their cupboard without asking, to bring out the camera. I turn it on and as I’m flicking through the random gallery I say to Ollie, “The gang that hangs about at the end of your street, you know them?”

  “Yes.” His eyes are following the images scrolling back.

  “They’ve just nicked my phone.”

  He looks up. “Nicked your phone? That’s pinching, innit, Marc?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Don’t worry,” he says. “One time, they pinched my camera.”

  “What? This one, or another one?”

  “That one, yeah. They was just funning, though. They give it back. Did they pinch it out your pocket? Did they run up the alley?”

  “They ran away.”

  “Prob’ly be back soon. Same as me.”

  My rapid thumb-flicking stops at the picture of an approaching Number 19 bus. The image in my mind is of Ollie standing stoically not, as so often, at a bus stop, but in his own street, patient if a bit bewildered, while the council estate gang are out of sight planting dirty pictures in his camera, postcards of affection for the lovable retard. He probably hasn’t even noticed they’re there. If he has, good luck. I turn off the power and hand the camera back to him. Ollie’s brow creases, unable to fathom what I’ve been doing.

  “Do you know where they live exactly?”

  “No. Mam might.” He wanders back into the living-room. “Mam, you know that girl what used to come for the Christmas Club money?” (Christmas Club? They barricade the place up every night, but they let that toe-rag in and trust her with their money?) “Do you know where she lives? Marc needs to get his phone back.”

  Mrs Dunn stops staring at the floor in front of her feet and she looks up at me (I think) through her dark glasses. “Has that stupid girl pinched your phone?”

  “Her and her boyfriend, yeah, ’fraid so.” I’m feeling almost apologetic about it now, given the Christmas Club connection.

  The old woman’s lips purse. “He’s a Hedley. She’s a stupid little bitch, and it’s not often I swear,” pointing a crooked forefinger up to include me in the blame. “They’re just not biddable, not now. What wi’ all this binge drinking and drugs and such nowadays. Makes you weep.” She stares down at the floor, saying half to herself, “I went to school wi’ Bella.” Adding, for my benefit, “That’s her nan.”

  “Would you know where the girl lives?” I prompt her, conscious of time passing.

  “No point going there.” She looks beyond me. “Oliver!” she commands her son. “Take him round to the man with the dogs.” Oliver promptly goes to the cupboard for his coat as Mrs Dunn hoists herself from the armchair. I’m already through the door and waiting impatiently outside by the time he’s zipped up and ready to go. His mother is fussing with him in the doorway, muttering instructions and stuffing something, a hankie probably, into his pocket before she lets him out of her sight.

  “I don’t post any leaflets there,” Ollie says cheerfully as he leads me through short cuts to the north end of the estate.

  “Where?”

  “The dog man’s house. He hasn’t got a letterbox. Anyway, I’m scared o’ them animals.”

  When we get to the property I can see why Oliver wouldn’t want to venture up the path with his bag of circulars. Situated in a cul-de-sac more sullen than Oliver’s place, the house is grimmer still than the others around it, shadowed by the addition of a sturdy and heavily-padlocked outhouse inside the metal fence. The gate has a Beware of the dog! sign displayed prominently. The house door, as Ollie mentioned, has no letter-box for the simple reason that it is reinforced with sheet steel.

  “What are we doing here?”

  “Mam says he might have your phone.”

  “Does one of the gang live here?”

  “No, just the man with the dogs.” I notice that Ollie hangs back as I find the latch on the gate and start walking up the path, setting off ferocious barking and growling from inside long before I reach the door. No surprise that the owne
r doesn’t bother with a bell or knocker. What he does have, though, is a CCTV camera, more primitive than the version installed at Warkworth Street, protected from any dullard tempted to steal it by a nest of vicious-looking barbed wire. I can hear a man’s gruff voice on the other side of the door yelling to quieten the dogs, followed by the slamming of an inside door and a fumbling with lock and chain. I can’t control a sharp intake of breath, bracing myself for the dogs, but the door opens only to the limit of the security chain and it’s a man’s nose that pokes out.

  “Huh?”

  “Er, sorry to disturb,” (ridiculous opener) “Only, I was told you might have my phone. Mobile phone? Silver Nokia?”

  “Says who?”

  “A Mrs Dunn. Kielder Close.”

  There’s movement behind me. Oliver shuffles to where the man can see him through the gap in the door. I watch the guy look at him, then at me, trying to compute. “Wait,” he says at last, and closes the door on us. We wait. Two minutes later the door rattles a little way open again and the man is back, showing a silver Nokia mobile, switched off but otherwise exactly as I last saw it, through the gap. “This the kind o’ thing?”

  “That’s the very one, thanks.”

  “Two hundred.”

  “Eh?”

  “Two hundred. I can only take cash.”

  I’m back at square one. The reason I got into this bother in the first place is I haven’t a bean on me. I’m not even absolutely certain this is my phone.