“What?” An image pops into my head—Niall manhandling me into a wall, pressing his body into mine. I can almost feel the outline of his chest against mine. I shake my head, trying to get it out of my mind.
“Over the gallery. I didn’t mean to put you on the spot.” His voice is so soft I have to step closer to hear him. “I feel bad for railroading you.”
“You didn’t railroad me.” I am lying through my teeth. I don’t want to be the weak one anymore. The girl so easily led astray. “It’ll be great; I’m looking forward to it.”
His smile is confused. “Okay. Well, thanks for agreeing to it. I owe you one.”
I raise my eyebrows and nod. For a moment I find it easy to pretend this could work, that we could be two colleagues taking a group of kids on an outing. No issues, no history. Just good, clean friends.
I’m clearly delusional.
6
Nobody’s seen Daisy MacArthur for a while. The last time anyone heard from her was almost two weeks ago, when she cancel
led her appointment with Lara. Since then I’ve tried calling and messaging her with no response. A lump of lead lies at the bottom of my gut when I think of all the things that could have gone wrong.
Every one of them comes back to the same root cause: Darren.
Her lowlife scumbag of a boyfriend drifts in and out of her world like a crisp packet on a breeze. Every time, he wreaks havoc then disappears, leaving Daisy to pick up the pieces of her broken life. It gets harder each time. She thinks they’re star-crossed lovers, destined to be together, torn apart by fate. In her mind, he’s her Byron, her Romeo. Not Darren Tebbit, local drug dealer and all-round asshole.
Daisy was brought up by a single mother in a council flat not far from here. She watched her mum die a slow, lingering death from lung cancer when Daisy was only twelve. Her next four years were spent in the system, pushed from foster care to group home then back again. No wonder she was seduced by the idea of a white knight riding in to save her.
She’s never told me who Allegra’s father is—and I’ve never asked. I figure she’ll tell me when she’s ready, or if it’s something important to her. All I know is she had Allegra at the age of sixteen, the right time to score herself a council flat, paid for by social services. The dad could have been another kid at the home or school. Perhaps a teacher or a care worker. I honestly have no idea. She wasn’t the first teenager in the care system to think a baby would solve all her problems.
Even though Simon would kill me if he knew I was here, I arrive at her block of flats at two o’clock on Friday afternoon. The sun is desperately trying to burn through the grey, high-level clouds that’ve been cloaking the sky for days, lending them a pale lemon hue. It’s so much prettier than the dull slate of the concrete tower block.
Built as part of a social movement that flushed through Britain in the 1960s, the tower stands as a memorial to over-optimism. Once there were flower pots and plants hanging from the rails that circle the building. Now there are drying clothes. Walkways wrap around the block—envisaged as ‘streets in the sky’—and are best avoided at night. This is where the deals go down, where the gangs fight over territory. This is the Britain we middle-class folk like to forget exists.
I don’t take the lift up to the fourth floor. It’s out of order, but I’m also scared of getting stuck in there, among the litter and the smell of urine. If I’m truly honest with myself, I don’t want to be trapped in there with another resident, either. They scare the hell out of me. Even dressed down in jeans and a thin jacket, wearing nondescript boots with my hair pulled into a messy bun, it’s clear I don’t belong around here. I don’t think it’s my clothes or make-up as much as the way my face looks. It’s too clear and bright—not marred by a lifetime of poverty and desperation. Coming here makes me realise just how lucky I am, and how far I’ve come.
By the time I reach the fourth floor I’m breathless. I have to catch some oxygen before I open the door of the stairwell and walk out onto the long wraparound balcony that leads to all the flats. It’s not quite so scary here during the day, though I’m still wary as I walk past a group of young lads, leaning against the rails and smoking, their dark eyes following me. I glance at them—enough to take in that despite their cigarettes and their bumfluff beards they should all be at school.
Of course, I’m too chickenshit to say anything.
Daisy lives at 422, about halfway down the block. When I get there, I notice the curtains are drawn. The window glass is so grimy that whatever light the thin fabric lets in must be obscured by dirt. Knocking twice on the door makes a few flecks of peeling red paint fall to the concrete floor. After waiting for a minute I knock again, but there’s still no response.
I vacillate over what to do next. Perhaps I should leave a note, or wait until Daisy comes back, but I’m too scared to hang around here for long. I knock one last time and shout her name this time—making sure there’s nobody outside who can hear me—but I get nothing.
Then there’s a loud creak as the door to the next flat opens. A woman peers around the wooden frame, reaching up to wipe a lock of greasy brown hair out of her face. She stares at me through narrowed eyes.
“You from the council?” she asks suspiciously.
“No.” I shake my head quickly.
She raises a drawn-on eyebrow. “The social?”
“I’m a friend of Daisy’s. Do you know where she is?”
She’s still staring at me. Her eyes slowly scan downward, taking in my clothes, my shoes, the way I stand. “Yeah.”
We look at each other, and it takes me a minute to realise she isn’t going to follow up. “Where?”
“Who wants to know?”
I take a step toward the woman, then stop as soon as I notice the huge dog standing right behind her. I’m not that great with breeds, but it looks like a wolf crossed with a Doberman. “My name’s Beth. I know Daisy and Allegra. I want to make sure she’s okay.”
“They took her kiddie away.”