At St Stephen’s he quickly had to orientate himself. He didn’t want to go too far into the building, but he had to see the kid. He’d spent half the night racking his brains trying to think of the name. He knew it had been a bit unusual. Then this morning, when he was scanning a new business document, it suddenly came to him: Dale. He was sure that was it. He didn’t have the surname, of course. But there couldn’t be too many Dales aged about ten at the school.
Inside the entrance from the pavement there was a covered porch leading to a worn and shabby concrete quadrangle at the front and, from each side, through to dank corridors, pungent with industrial disinfectant. Boys in purple blazers were milling about the place, talking at the tops of their voices, in a chaos that made Paddington station at rush hour seem a haven of calm. But, Chris observed, no one seemed to be in charge – which suited his purposes exactly.
He approached a couple of boys about the same size as Dale, who were fighting over a Walkman. ‘I’m looking for a kid called Dale. About your height. Dark hair.’
‘Dale Nesbitt?’
‘Yeah. Know where he is?’
‘Probably in the gym,’ said one.
‘Always in the gym,’ chimed the other.
‘Bit of a sportsman, right?’
The two exchanged looks. Best not pursue that one.
‘So, where’s the gym?’
One of them began to explain. He’d have to go through this building, and down that flight of stairs. All too convoluted.
‘I tell you what,’ he jangled his pockets, ‘there’s five quid for each of you if you go and get him for me.’
‘Right now?’ They were suddenly interested.
‘As soon as you can.’
As they rushed off, he glanced at the clock above the quadrangle. Eight minutes to two. He shuffled on to the pavement, just outside the entrance. Plenty of purple blazers out here too, as well as lunch-time passers-by and the usual chaos of London traffic. He paced around impatiently, glancing into the entrance every minute to see if the two boys had returned with Dale. The weight of the sports kit began to tear the bin liner in his hand, so he had to pick it up and hold it from underneath.
Then, just before two, a bell sounded, shrill and sustained. The effect was instant. There was a scramble of activity on the porch and pavement, as the purple leaked away. Uniformed figures were hurrying across the quadrangle and down the corridors, quickly emptying the place. Chris was starting to despair when the two boys came running into view with a third in their wake. Thank God it was him.
Chris quickly handed his helpers a crisp £5 note each, which they seized with great excitement before hurrying away. All the time, Dale was studying him with a solemn gaze. Once the other two had left, Chris realised he was now alone in the porch with Dale.
‘It’s good to see you,’ Chris told him, trying to be friendly.
‘I’ve got a class.’
‘I know,’ he said quickly. ‘Look, there’s a lot of stuff in here I thought you could use. Sports gear.’
‘Why?’ The other was wary.
‘Why?’ repeated Chris. It wasn’t the reaction he’d expected. There was a remoteness about the child’s expression he found hard to place.
‘Why d’you want to give it to me?’
Chris stepped back, trying to be reassuring. ‘Look, if you don’t want it, that’s fine,’ he said. ‘It’s just that I know you’re big on sport. Always in the gym and stuff …’
There was a pause before the other said, ‘He sent you here, didn’t he?’
Now Chris couldn’t mistake it; it was fear. The boy was scared out of his wits. He took another step back. ‘Who d’you mean?’ he asked.
‘The man with the Starwear. But I don’t want his stuff.’ The boy’s voice was rising, his hands clutching at his crotch. ‘I thought he liked giving me things. That’s what he said at the beginning. But he just wants to do things to me. I don’t want to go back!’ he begged.
Chris hated doing this. But he had to know. ‘Why not?’
Dale stood there, dark-eyed and suddenly mute, his ten-year-old face filled with horror. The hands holding his shorts were trembling. Then Chris looked down at where he was standing, and noticed the puddle at his feet, growing larger with each second.
Across the quadrangle, a priest had caught sight of him and was striding over, dark cloak billowing in the wind. ‘What do you want?’ he cried, his mouth a dark gash in the lengthy whiteness of his face.