جميع فصول : الفصل -الفصل 109

HARRISON'S POVA mechanic held a carburettor in one blackened hand while pointing me in the right direction with the other. Grease coated his fingers, etched deep into the lines of his skin like something permanent. He told me the pub was called the Tramway Hotel, adding that Bert McMullen was usually propped up at the bar.“How will I recognise him?” I had asked.The mechanic only chuckled, a dry, knowing sound, before turning back to the engine. He leaned into the hollow belly of a bus, disappearing from view as though the answer should have been obvious.I found the Tramway without much difficulty. Outside, someone had scrawled a message across the blackboard in uneven chalk: A beer means never having to say, “I’m thirsty.” It felt less like a joke and more like a declaration of faith.Inside, the pub was dim and stale, the kind of place where light struggled to exist. The floors were stained, the furniture bare and functional. Red bulbs glowed above the bar, casting a faint pink h

HARRISON'S POV It was just after six. Ruby would still be asleep. And I was sure Madison will be with her. I took out my mobile and switched it on, staring at its faint glow in the half-light. No messages. Nothing. That, I supposed, was part of my punishment, to think of her when I fell asleep and again the moment I woke.I sat on the windowsill and watched the sky slowly brighten.Pigeons wheeled and drifted above the rooftops, their shapes cutting through the pale morning. They reminded me of Varanasi, of vultures circling high above the funeral pyres, waiting patiently for the charred remains to be cast into the Ganges. Varanasi had been a miserable, broken place—crumbling buildings, hollow-eyed children, and very little beauty beyond the vivid saris and the graceful sway of the women who wore them. It had both repelled and fascinated me.Liverpool stirred the same conflicting feelings.I waited until seven before calling Ruby.A man answered.For a second, I thought I had dialle

HARRISON'S POV Social Services kept detailed files on children who had been sexually abused. There had been a time when I’d had full access to them, back when I was still part of the system. That privilege was long gone. Privacy laws saw to that.I needed help now, from someone I hadn’t seen in more than ten years.Her name was Melinda Cossimo, and I wasn’t entirely sure I would recognise her anymore.We arranged to meet in a coffee shop opposite the magistrates’ court.When I had first come to Liverpool, Mel had been a duty social worker. Now she was an area manager, though the modern title was “child protection specialist.” Not many people survived that long in Social Services. Most burned out. The rest exploded.Mel had once been a full-blown punk—spiked hair, ripped denim, distressed leather jackets. She thrived on challenging people, not necessarily because she disagreed, but because she wanted to see whether they could defend what they believed.She had grown up in Cornwall, li

HARRISON'S POV There must have been another case conference sometime in mid-November. I searched for the minutes but found nothing. The police investigation had been suspended, yet the file itself remained open, as though someone wasn’t quite ready to let it go completely.The third file was different from the others. It was heavier, thicker, filled with legal documents, some of them neatly bound with ribbon. I recognized the format immediately. Social Services, convinced that Bobby was at risk, had moved to apply for a permanent care order. Once that decision had been made, the lawyers had stepped in and taken over.“What are you mumbling about?”I looked up. Mel had returned from her shopping, balancing two cups of coffee on top of a thick ledger. She set them down carefully on the desk.“Sorry I can’t offer you anything stronger,” she said with a faint smile. “Remember when we used to smuggle boxes of wine in here at Christmas?”I couldn’t help it, I smiled back. “I remember Boyd