by Ashe Barker
“What time is Josh due back?” Michele asks. It’s already going up to eleven.
“He said he might stay at his apartment tonight,” I answer. “He has an early start in the morning, and it’ll save him a couple of hours travelling time.”
“Is it okay if I stay over, then?” she asks. “I’ve drunk too much to drive.”
“Sure. It would be in any case, there are two spare rooms.” It has already been agreed that Pru is staying the night.
They exchange a look. I suspect I won’t be bundling two sets of sheets into the washing machine tomorrow.
“Josh has kept his apartment, then?” Michele continues. “I thought, since you two are back together, he might have moved in here.”
“He has, more or less. The flat in town comes in useful for nights like this, or when we’ve both been at the club until very late. We decided to keep both my house and his apartment for the time being.”
Michele regards me over her bright-red glasses. “Is this you two being non-committal?” she wonders aloud.
I start to deny it but stop short. She has a point, actually. Occasional convenience aside, it would make much better sense for Josh to sell up and move in with me properly. He’s not hard up for cash, but the apartment stands empty for days, sometimes weeks on end while he stays here. It’s a waste of money, but my concerns run deeper than that.
What if, after everything, he still hankers for that other, more exciting life? Herding trolleys and nicking the occasional shoplifter can’t compare to fighting the Taliban or bringing down the Islamic State. I remember Josh telling me his work mattered. He made a difference. I know how much all of that meant to him, but he gave it up because I asked him to.
He must miss the buzz, the adventure, not to mention the camaraderie.
“Libby, what’s wrong? What are you thinking?” Pru leans towards me and lays her hand on my arm.
“It’s nothing,” I protest.
“No, there is something,” Michele joins in now. “I could always tell when something was bothering you. Go on. Spill.”
“Really, I was just…daydreaming.”
“What about?” Pru presses me. “Is something worrying you?”
“No, I—”
“Libby…” Michele adopts her warning tone. “Don’t make me phone Josh and ask him.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Try me.”
“He wouldn’t be able to tell you in any case,” I continue to protest.
“So, there is something to tell. I knew it.” Michele folds her arms and glares at me. “No one leaves this kitchen until you tell us what’s going on. All of it.”
“Nothing is ‘going on’ as you put it. It’s just me…”
“Just you what?” Pru prompts me.
“Just me worrying about nothing,” I eventually concede.
“If it’s worrying you, it’s not nothing,” Michele insists. “Is it Josh? If he’s upset you again, I’ll—”
“No. He hasn’t. At least, not on purpose. Not at all, in fact…”
Michele gives a disgusted snort. “Spare us the riddles, Libby. We’re all too drunk for that carry-on. In words of one syllable, what has Josh done? If he thinks springing two grand for a sculpture, even if it is by one the most promising up-and-coming artists of the next generation, gets him a pass to mess my sister about, he’s wrong.”
It might be comical, if the whole thing didn’t already have me churned up in knots. When Josh is here, we’re fine. He’s attentive, loving, stern when I need him to be, and despite anything he might say, he’s lost none of his Dom skills. His palm is a twitchy as it ever was, and I’ve never felt better, never been better taken care of in every respect. He gives me no reason to suppose he’s not in it for the long haul, just as I am. We’re planning our future. Josh wants to book a holiday in the Caribbean for next summer, and that proves he must be serious. Right?
So why, then, do I let these niggling doubts threaten to wreck all of that? Why imagine Josh might secretly wish he was back in Syria or Iraq or Afghanistan? He gives the impression he’s content to head up security in a shopping arcade for the rest of his life, but that can’t be true. That’s not my Josh. One day, sooner or later…he’ll realise his true destiny.
Then what? Will I be alone and scared all over again? Despite all of his apologies and promises, is that, after all, where we are headed?
Michele and Pru just stare at me. No one speaks, and I groan when I realise I said all of that out loud.
Pru is the first to break the silence. “Have you said all of this to Josh?”
I shake my head. “Of course not. He’d only deny it.”
“I’m sure he would, especially if none of it is true.” Pru’s tone is gentle, but I detect a core of hardened steel. She believes in Josh, unequivocally. The only real question to ask is, why don’t I?
Michele nods. “I’m with Pru on this. You should either ask him or stop thinking about it. For fuck’s sake, don’t let your own overactive imagination ruin this second chance for the pair of you. Josh is a keeper, I’m sure of it.”
I expect he’d be touched by their loyalty, and I can’t help but be impressed, too. These are the two women I trust most in the world. If they believe in Josh, then that’s good enough for me.
I nod. “You’re right. Both of you.”
Enough, now. Enough.
Chapter 13
Josh
I arrive at work just before ten, just as the main stores are opening. One or two of them, such as the huge supermarket occupying an entire wing, and the bakeries and fast-food outlets, open early, at seven thirty or eight. But the main doors to the centre stay locked until ten, when we let the first influx of eager shoppers in.
I take my usual spot on the mezzanine floor and lean over the barrier to observe the food hall below. It’s already crowded. This is the last week of the school summer holidays, so there are a lot of families doing the last-minute rounds. Harassed mothers for the most part, with school uniforms to buy and shoe fittings to preside over. Something sensible, of course, in shiny black leather and with room to grow into. And all of this while their ungrateful offspring dream of a few final days of freedom and just want this ordeal to be over. There is little enthusiasm on either side for the ‘back to school’ ritual, though this is more than made up for by the zeal of the stores.
Posters everywhere proclaim sales and special offers. Three school shirts can be had for the price of two. Or shoppers can claim a free sports bag with every pair of trainers purchased. One store is even offering a free one-year subscription to Netflix with every laptop bought. It all seems to be working. The shoppers are here in droves.
My radio crackles. I hit the ‘receive’ button.
“Boss, we have a situation down in the gents’ toilets.”
“Which ones?” I am already on the move.
“Number seven, outside Debenhams.”
“What sort of a situation?” I sprint down the escalator, passing shoppers as I go. Mostly they move aside to let me pass.
“Two lads with their pockets full of phone chargers, trying to hide them behind the hand dryers.”
Fucking idiots. I reach the main arcade and make my way to the toilets. One of my officers is already stationed outside to keep the public out. Inside, another two security guards have the lads cornered and the stolen gear in a pile beside the washbasins.
I count eight chargers, most still in their bubble packs. Not a valuable haul, not by any means, but easily saleable in any school playground if the young thieves could have got them out of here without anyone seeing. Not happening, though, at least, not this time.
The lads themselves don’t look a day over twelve. They are both wearing the regulation kids’ uniform of ripped jeans, fake designer trainers, and hoodies. They both have a generally sullen air, as though they are perfectly entitled to help themselves to the merchandise and are somehow outraged at our temerity in apprehending them.
Sure enough, the protests begin as soon as I open my mouth to ask their names.
“You can’t prove nothin’,” claims the first, the slightly taller of the two.
I shrug. “I’m not in the business of proving. I leave that to the police. How old are you?”
His response is an obscene gesture. Somehow, I don’t think he’s trying to tell me that he’s two years old.
I turn to his companion. “And you? How old are you, and what’s your name?”
His response is equally helpful, though he does also point out what a knob I am.
I’ve heard enough. I want these toerags out of my shopping centre “Okay, Trevor, we’ll let the police handle this.” I get out my mobile and dial the number that will put me straight through to the local constabulary. It’s answered after two rings.
“Josh Novak here, head of security at Hunters Gate Centre I have two shoplifters I need to hand over to you.”
“Fair enough,” comes the weary reply. “Can I take some details?”
“Juveniles, aged approximately twelve years. They’ve refused to give their names or any other personal details.”
“What did they steal?”
“Small electronics by the look of it. We’ve not done a thorough search, though. Thought we’d leave that to you and your responsible adults.”
“Oy, you pillock. Don’t you be tellin’ them we stole summat else.” The first boy finds his tongue again. “I’ll ’ave the law on you.”
I spare him what I hope might pass as a withering glance. I hate nicking kids, but it has to be done. A few hours in police custody could be just the sort of short, sharp shock they need. I take comfort in that probably forlorn hope as I arrange to have the lads ready to be collected by a patrol car in ten minutes’ time. Meanwhile, they can wait in the secure interview room. I leave instructions with Trevor, and Graham, the other security officer, to that effect. Then I pull on latex gloves — I always carry several pairs in my pockets for just such occasions — and sweep the chargers into an evidence bag and seal it. I sign and date the opaque panel on the front and hand it to Trevor.
Exhibit A, M’lud.
“If you need me, I’ll be in my office sorting out the bloody paperwork.”
“Right, boss.”
Trevor and Graham march the lads out into the arcade I make a private wager to myself. Ten to one says those two will have wriggled free and legged it before they get anywhere near a police car. At least they didn’t get away with the chargers, but that probably means they’ll be back later to try again.
Now, I need to get back to the management suite pronto. Ideally, I should email my brief report through to the police so it will be in their hands by the time the suspects arrive at the police station, assuming they ever do. My progress is repeatedly foiled by slow-moving shoppers. I find myself jammed behind a man with a guide dog, and a woman of about twenty with a toddler hanging on to her rumpled skirt, and another smaller child in a pushchair. The toddler, a small girl in a bright-red dress, is grizzling, and I swear she is on a deliberate go-slow. Apparently, her mother agrees with me.
“Poppy, for Christ’s sake stop that din and get a move on.” The mother pauses to take the little girl’s hand. “You can have a lolly as soon as we’ve got some pretty new knickers for you. You want those, don’t you? Ready for when you start nursery next week?”
The logic seems lost on Poppy, but at least she quietens down a bit. A promise is a promise, after all, and she evidently fancies a lolly.
“Hold on to our Daniel’s buggy, there’s a good girl. We won’t be long now, then we can go for the bus.”
Tiny fingers wrap themselves around the upright section of the pushchair handle. It’s a rather tatty affair, and I notice one of the wheels seems to have a mind of its own. I suspect until recently Poppy was the one being wheeled around in the bright-orange conveyance. Maybe she resents giving up her seat, however humble, to the latest arrival.
A gap in the pedestrian traffic suddenly appears, and I dart past the family. I steal a glance into the buggy. Sure enough, the child strapped in can’t be more than a few months old. I don’t envy the mother. I’m no expert on small children, but these two must be a handful, and she’s barely more than a child herself.
I mumble, “Excuse me,” and hurry on by.
An hour later, the report on the two shoplifters safely emailed over to the police, I’m back on the mezzanine floor, people-watching. By now it’s approaching lunchtime, and already the outlets are doing a roaring trade. Most of the tables in the central area are occupied. Soon, it’ll be standing room only, a pickpocket’s paradise.
We call them dippers, the nimble-fingered thieves who relieve people of their wallets or mobile phones and are clean away before anyone even knows a crime has been committed. When people are distracted, trying to juggle trays of fast food, their children, prams and wheelchairs, and bags of shopping, they get careless. They leave purses at the top of open bags, or, with their hands full, there’s nothing they can do, even if they do feel slippery fingers slide into their back pocket.
I put out a call on the radio that any spare security staff should make their way to the food hall. There are fourteen of us on duty, so if even half of those are on dipper alert it all helps to keep shoppers safe.
If I hadn’t been watching the crowd so closely myself, I might have missed it. The brief flash of orange as a familiar buggy wobbles and weaves through the mass of people. I can only assume Poppy has found an extra gear, because they’re moving at a fair lick now.
Shit.
Shit, shit!
Poppy is nowhere to be seen, and the woman pushing the buggy isn’t the same one I saw earlier. The man at her side is also a stranger, though it’s clear they are together because he places his hand on her elbow to urge her on. They are in a hurry.
Is it the same buggy?
Yes! It fucking well is. I’d recognise that awful shade of orange anywhere.
I’m already heading for the escalator, all the time scanning the crowd for a sight of Poppy or her mother. I spot them, seated on the edge of one of the ornamental planters. Poppy is on her mother’s knee, the pair are talking, laughing…
I’m bracing for the scream moments before it splits the air. The mother turns and sees an empty space where her baby should be. She stands, glances right and left, takes a few paces, then rushes back to scoop up a bewildered Poppy.
Then, she lets rip.
“My baby. My baby’s gone. Daniel. Daniel!”
From my vantage point on the escalator, I still have eyes on the fleeing pair with the orange buggy, but I lose them when they turn a corner. My best guess is that they’re headed for the lifts leading to the car parks.
These events are rare, thank goodness, but I’m trained for just this sort of eventuality. I go onto autopilot.
“Child abduction in progress,” I bark into my radio. “Full lockdown. All security personnel to car park, east exit.”
I’m still sprinting down the main arcade as I get the CCTV monitoring station on the radio. “Monitor all lifts to car parks, all levels. You’re looking for a couple, mid-thirties, pushing an orange buggy with a male child inside. Report to me as soon as you spot them.”
I catch up with one of my officers, a female guard, making her way, as instructed, to the car parks.
“Jackie, could you go to the food hall, please. The mother is there. Take her to my office and wait with her until the police arrive.”
“Have they been called?” Jackie asks.
“I expect so. One of the other shoppers has most likely done that. But call it in anyway, to be certain. Tell them that the abduction was witnessed by centra security and we are responding. Give them the description and tell them that we are in pursuit, the premises are locked down, and the suspects will not be permitted to leave the premises. We expect to apprehend them in the multi-storey.”
She nods and hurries off, her phone already in her hand. Meanwhile, I round the c
orner in time to see the lift doors close on a flash of bright orange.
I’m on my radio again. “Confirmed. Suspects are in lift number seventeen. Are all the exit barriers locked?”
“Yes, sir,” comes the response. “And the shutters are down on all pedestrian exit routes.”
My staff is as well versed as I am in these protocols.
“Right,” I reply,
The lockdown command isn’t that unusual, really. And it means just that. No one is permitted to come in or out until whatever emergency triggered it has been resolved. Invariably, it’s a missing child, though they usually wander off all on their own.
“Control room, do you have them yet?” I demand of the CCTV monitors.
“Negative, sir. Lift number seventeen is just passing level seven.”
I’m at the lifts now and I press the button to summon the adjacent car, number sixteen. It arrives in moments, and I let out a silent sigh of relief. I didn’t relish the prospect of running up at least seven flights of stairs. I select the roof from the options on the control panel, the highest floor. At least if I have stairs to negotiate, I’ll be heading down.
“They’re on ten, sir.” The voice of the CCTV monitor comes back over the radio. “Just exited the lift.”
The little light indicators tell me I’m just passing five. I hit the button for level ten.
“Keep them in sight. All security personnel to car park, level ten.”
“Suspects are making their way to parking area three, sir.” This latest contribution is from Trevor, one of my most experienced guards. “Am in pursuit.”
“You’re on level ten?” I double-check.
“Affirmative. I have them in sight.”
The lift I’m in shudders to a halt, and the doors open. “I’m right there with you.” I emerge at a run and head for area three.
Trevor is making his way down the opposite wall, perhaps fifty metres from me. He raises a hand to acknowledge my presence, and I wave back. The couple still seem oblivious to the fact that half the bloody shopping centre are after them, and in any case, all the barriers are down and the shutters locked. They make their unhurried way towards a blue Mazda.
