Recoil in horror had about summed up his mother’s reaction to her younger son’s appearance. His father had been less restrained. ‘My God, he’s gone native’ and ‘Get that bloody hair cut!’ had been a selection of the more moderate pieces of advice he had offered. His teenage sister’s response had been less predictable.
‘You’ll be mobbed by women who want to see if you’re sensitive and misunderstood under the dark, dangerous exterior. Sexily sinister,’ she’d said, quite pleased with her alliteration.
He’d found such perception in one of such tender years worrying; accustomed to female attention, he had already been aware of a subtle difference in that attention since he’d got back home—women were strange creatures. And talking about precocious—he had a more immediate problem than his hairstyle to worry about.
‘If you don’t want to go to the police station…’ Maybe this kid was already well known there, he surmised. He felt a stab of fury at the sheer injustice that any child’s future could be so depressingly predictable. ‘How about home?’ He doubted home meant the same thing to this child as it did to him.
She still kept her distance, but his comment seemed to make her pause. ‘The taxi driver said I didn’t have enough money to go all the way home. I’ll walk the rest of the way. I wanted to be back before…’ The shrug was pure bravado. ‘I’ll be all right.’ She bit her lip.
Despite the stoical exterior she couldn’t keep the small tremor from her voice. It occurred to him that maybe she wasn’t half as blasé as she pretended to be. The poor kid was probably scared stiff.
‘I’ll pay for your taxi.’
’You?’ The young lips curled with scorn.
‘You don’t think I’m good for it?’
‘I’m not about to get into a car with a stranger.’
‘I’m pleased to hear it. I’m not going in your direction.’ Walking through a minefield had to be easier than this!
‘Why do you want to help me?’
Good question, Ben. This child certainly had an unnerving ability to cut to the heart of the matter. ‘Such cynicism in one so young.’ He suddenly remembered he was talking to a child. ‘Cynicism is…’ he began kindly.
‘I know what cynicism is; I’m a kid, not an idiot.’
And that puts me in my place nicely, he thought, stifling an urge to smile in response to the youngster’s scornful interruption. ‘And I’m your guardian angel, so take my offer or leave it.’ He made it sound as though he didn’t give a damn.
‘I think you’re mad, but I do have a blister.’ She looked down at her feet. ‘New trainers,’ she added, scuffing her toe on the ground.
‘Follow that cab!’
The driver was quite happy to oblige once Benedict had paid up front. He’d be prepared to pay a lot more just to have the opportunity of telling that scrap’s parents what he thought of them! Something about those eyes had made his protective instincts kick in with a vengeance.
The building the black cab drew up in front of was not in the sort of neighbourhood he’d expected. Rows of Edwardian villas lined the roads, and there was an air of quiet affluence. He watched as the kid walked up the driveway of a house as he got out of the cab.
She didn’t see him until she had the key in the lock of the ground-floor flat. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I’d like a word with your father.’ Actually he’d quite like to throttle the irresponsible idiot.
‘I don’t have a father.’ Her whole stance said, Want to make something of it?
‘Well, your mother, then.’
‘She’s out. She won’t be back until very late.’ The door opened a crack and, slippery as an eel, she disappeared inside, closing the door behind her. ‘Her boyfriend’s going to propose to her tonight!’ The last words were muffled as the door swung closed.
Images of a heartless, selfish woman so involved in her own pleasure that she neglected her child made his chest swell with righteous indignation. He’d heard definite tears in that tough little voice as the door had closed. Without actually thinking past his need to tell this woman exactly what he thought of her, he leant hard against the doorbell.
The baby-sitter had begun to scream again at the mention of the police.
‘Police? Is that really necessary, Rachel?’
Rachel French rounded on her escort, her grey eyes smouldering with anger. ‘Necessary! It’s eleven-thirty at night, Nigel, and my ten-year-old daughter is not only not in bed, she is not in the flat, or the building. She could be anywhere!’