Running Girl

by Simon Mason

  ‘Yeah. A bit.’

  ‘But I’m not a rash person, am I, Smith?’

  ‘No, Miss.’

  ‘What sort of person am I?’

  ‘Utterly ruthless, Miss.’

  ‘That’s correct. I’m very glad we understand each other. You see, Smith, all you need to do is a little work. And you have four whole weeks to do it in.’ She brought her face closer to Garvie’s. ‘And I know that’s what you’re going to do. How do I know that’s what you’re going to do?’

  ‘ ’Cause otherwise you won’t hesitate to have me deported.’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  She returned to the other side of her desk with an air of having achieved her objective, and sat down again.

  ‘From now on you’re being monitored. Miss a lesson and your mother gets a call. Miss a second lesson and I’ll pull you from all your exams. I won’t risk sub-standard grades, and of course if you have no chance to get any sort of grades things will be greatly simplified for your mother. From what she told me I think you’ll be in Bridgetown by the end of the month. Any questions?’

  Garvie thought for a moment.

  ‘If you were young, blonde and attractive, Miss, what would you do if you found yourself entangled with the wrong sort of man? Thinking of the psychology-terra-incognita angle.’

  Miss Perkins sat rigid, glaring at him. At first it seemed she was about to call security, or perhaps just turn him to stone with the appalling power of her stare, but after a moment she said, in a frozen voice, ‘I would not put myself in that position in the first place, Smith.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I thought you’d say,’ Garvie said. ‘Perhaps I’m getting the hang of that psychology thing after all. At least with utterly ruthless women.’

  And, nodding affably, he got to his feet and exited the room before Miss Perkins could come out of her trance of fury.

  He got as far as the so-called IT Suite before he was ambushed by Jessica.

  ‘She likes you, bad boy. I can tell, the way she was looking at you.’

  ‘No, Jess. She doesn’t like me. She doesn’t understand me. To her I’m terra incognita.’

  ‘In-cog-what?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. I’m due in citizenship, and I really have to be there. Sorry.’

  ‘Wait. Got something to tell you.’

  He shook his head. ‘No time, Jess.’

  ‘About her. Chloe.’

  Turning away, he began to walk briskly along the corridor, and Jessica caught him up and scampered alongside him.

  ‘I know what it is. You can’t stop thinking about her, can’t get her out of your head. And I know why. You still love her, don’t you? Even though she dumped you. Even though she’s gone.’

  Rolling his eyes, saying nothing, Garvie walked on. He pushed his way through the fire door and set off across the yard in a drizzle that had stained the streaky asphalt to wet-dog grey.

  ‘I know how it feels,’ Jessica went on. ‘Can we stop for a bit, by the way? My feet hurt.’

  Garvie went round the corner of A Block saying nothing, and crossed to the entrance to Humanities and Arts.

  ‘I can’t walk in these flat shoes,’ Jessica wailed.

  He went up the staircase two steps at a time.

  ‘She wasn’t who you think she was, Garv!’ Her voice echoed below him in the stairwell.

  He climbed as far as Music, then through fire doors into another corridor, striding past classroom doors, lockers and vending machines towards Modern Languages, Jessica gamely stumbling after him.

  ‘She never loved you!’ she called. ‘She never even loved Alex.’

  Garvie pulled away from her and she faltered, limping and pouting.

  ‘She only liked her new man ’cause of what he promised he’d do for her!’ she cried, and finally came to a halt, gingerly holding an ankle, watching despairingly as Garvie disappeared round the corner of the corridor.

  A second later he reappeared.

  ‘What?’

  She languished against the scuffed and peeling wall, a bird with a broken wing. ‘It hurts, Garv.’

  He came back down the corridor towards her, and she languished a bit more.

  ‘You didn’t tell me anything about the new man before, Jess.’

  ‘I only just remembered.’

  ‘What did he promise to do for her?’

  ‘I don’t know. She never said. But I know it was something she really wanted.’

  ‘Who was he?’

  Jessica shook her head. ‘All I know is, he was someone she really, really shouldn’t have got involved with.’

  ‘Go on.’

  She winced. ‘Thing is, my ankle’s still hurting. It needs a little rub, Garv.’

  He turned away and Jessica said, ‘No, wait. I’ll tell you. She said if anyone found out about them, all hell’d break loose. As bad for him as for her, she said. Worse.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She didn’t say.’

  ‘Why would all hell break loose? Because he had a job here?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Or because of what he was going to do for her?’

  ‘She just said one day everyone would know everything, but by then it’d be too late. There. That’s it. I’ve told you it all. Will you give my foot a rub now, Garv? Just for a minute?’

  He looked at her, then at his watch, then at her foot, and then his phone rang.

  He took it out of his pocket and frowned at it before holding it to his ear. ‘Yeah?’

  His face changed. It changed so dramatically that Jessica put a hand out as if to steady him.

  ‘Garv? What is it, Garv?’

  He stood there with a hand in his hair, listening, his face fierce with concentration.

  ‘Yeah, I got a question,’ he said at last. ‘Why are you calling me?’

  For a while he listened again.

  ‘I wouldn’t do that if I was you,’ he said.

  He was silent a moment.

  ‘How about because I’m telling you not to?’

  He went on, ‘You’re not making much sense. How can I trust you? Really? After what you did that night?’

  For a long time he was silent, eyes glittering. Then he said, ‘All right. I’ll meet you. Where? Yeah, I know it. Late. I’ve got somewhere to go to first. No, later. Eleven. All right.’

  There was a pause, then he said, ‘You want to know what I think? I don’t think we should do this. But I know we’re going to do it anyway. Yeah, and you.’

  He stood there distracted, holding the phone between his fingers like a card he didn’t know whether to throw away or play.

  ‘Garv? Who was that? What are you up to, Garv?’

  Jessica limped away from the wall but he was already halfway down the corridor.

  ‘Sorry, Jess. Got to go. It’s going to be a long day.’

  ‘But Garv!’

  ‘Try the school nurse!’

  And then he was out of sight and she heard only his steady footsteps receding into the distance.

  35

  ALL THE WAY back to headquarters Singh felt tired and dispirited. But he couldn’t afford to rest, and as soon as he got into his office he called Collier, who appeared with a file ten minutes later.

  ‘Did you find the meeting Naylor was at?’

  Collier put the file on the desk in front of him. ‘There were eight meetings that evening, in different rooms. It’s a busy place.’

  ‘So which one was Naylor’s?’

  ‘None of them.’

  Singh frowned and opened the file. ‘Here,’ he said, pointing. ‘This must be it. SAD. Social Anxiety Disorder. Group Therapy. Six thirty to eight thirty.’

  ‘He didn’t go.’

  ‘Didn’t turn up?’

  ‘He’s never turned up. He’s never been to a SAD meeting. He’s not even registered. Look there. Check the list of attendees.’ Again Singh detected a trace of hostility and exasperation in Collier’s voice. ‘He’s never been
to any meeting at the Centre at all. I checked back five months. There are the lists for all the meetings. Took me an hour. No Naylor. Not him. He wasn’t there.’

  ‘But he was seen going in.’

  ‘By who?’

  Singh hesitated. ‘Doesn’t matter. I’ll check it myself.’

  After Collier had gone Singh sat disoriented for a while. He believed Garvie when he said that Naylor had gone to the Centre, so why was there no record of him there?

  He read through the list of meetings on Friday evening. There were eight, as Collier had said.

  17.30–20.30: Group Therapy (SOTP)

  18.30–20.30: Cognitive-Behavioural Group Therapy (SAD)

  19.30–20.30: Class on Budgeting for Non-Financial Managers (CE)

  19.30–20.30: Dealing with Domestic Crisis course (FID)

  20.00–21.00: Positive Behaviour Support classes (ILD)

  20.00–21.00: Female Self-Defence Class (CDA)

  20.00–21.00: Group Session (GA)

  20.30–21.30: Coping with Cocaine Addiction group session (GDC)

  It was all familiar and ordinary: sessions giving help for the usual mix of problems and addictions. ILD was the Institute for Learning Difficulties, GA Gamblers Anonymous, FID Families in Distress. The only acronym he didn’t recognize straight away was SOTP. He looked it up.

  And sat there looking at it.

  Sex Offenders Treatment Programme.

  He looked through the list of attendees for the programme obtained by Collier. There was no Naylor on it. For five minutes he stood by his window looking out at nothing. Then he made three phone calls.

  The first was to Probation Services, the group responsible for SOTP, who told him that disclosure of further information, even to police services, would involve formal legal intervention taking a minimum of two weeks.

  The second was to the Sex Offender Registry, who half an hour later sent through a report of all the Naylors on their records, none of whom matched his Naylor.

  The third was to Archives.

  ‘Bill? Raminder Singh here. City Squad.’

  ‘What’s up, Raminder?’

  ‘Remember we asked you to find records for a school caretaker?’

  ‘That’s right, somebody Naylor. We drew a blank.’

  ‘I think we were looking for the wrong man.’

  ‘Wrong man?’

  ‘Right man, wrong name.’

  There was a silence at the other end of the phone.

  Singh said, ‘I’ll come over and explain. If I’m right, we’ve got more searching to do.’

  It was lunch time, but Singh ignored his hunger. On his way past his PA she said, ‘The chief called.’

  He hesitated, and walked on, saying, ‘I’ll be over at Archives. Maybe all afternoon. But if Mal calls I want to know straight away.’

  Then he was gone.

  Bill Archer was a young guy with wiry orange hair and an Australian accent. He met Singh in reception and took him up to the open-plan offices above. As they walked between the pods of the data-archivists and researchers (a few of them glancing curiously at Singh in his turban as he went by), Singh explained what he wanted, and by the time they reached the glass-fronted office at the far end Archer was ready to get to work.

  He accessed the database. ‘Here’s the data hole. See?’

  Singh peered over his shoulder.

  The system held all the usual information for Naylor – date and place of birth, current medical records, social security data, financial and insurance details, police record and current employment details – but no record of his upbringing, schooling or any previous employment. Even if he’d been unemployed before, there should have been something in the records – at least his application to Marsh Academy, or his references, or his previous address. There was nothing. A whole part of his life had disappeared.

  ‘So where’s it gone?’ Singh asked.

  Archer shrugged. ‘Astray.’

  It wasn’t uncommon for data to go missing. It had happened on a big scale when Archives migrated to the new system a couple of years earlier. It still happened from time to time, for instance when data was transferred from one region to another.

  ‘So if, say, Naylor used to work as a caretaker at a school in another area, his records could have got lost en route from his old regional educational authority to his new one?’

  Archer nodded. ‘Most likely they’re in the system somewhere but you can’t find them if you don’t know what he was calling himself.’

  Singh handed him a copy of the list of attendees from the SOTP meeting and Archer raised his eyebrows.

  ‘He’s one of these guys?’

  ‘If he’s a convicted sex offender he’d have been given a new identity after his release. He’d be Naylor to everyone now except the SOTP. His real name would be one of these.’

  Archer looked down the list. ‘Nineteen of them – that’s not too bad. But first initials are notoriously unstable; you’ll have to scan the whole surname groups. And you’ve got some of the commonest here. Miller, Johnson, Williams. With a population this big, that’s a lot of slow work. I mean, really.’

  Singh winced. ‘Is it quicker to pull out photographic records from the Sex Offenders Register instead?’

  Archer shook his head. ‘Only half those records have photographs. Besides’ – he smiled wryly – ‘the systems don’t talk to each other.’

  ‘Then there’s no alternative.’

  Archer nodded. ‘I’ll set you up. But I’ve got to warn you: it could take a very long time.’

  Singh took off his jacket, rolled up his sleeves and began. It was half past two. Beginning with the less common names, he plugged in Naylor’s age, ethnic profile and the years he was likely to have worked, and ran the searches. He creamed off the closest matches and drilled down, and ran the searches again. Archer had been right. It was slow work.

  Time passed. Three thirty, four thirty. A broad bar of sunlight swept slowly across the desk and carpet, and disappeared into the corner of the room. Outside the building, colours cooled and leaked from things. Soon it would be evening and twilight. Five o’clock, six. The offices and pods around Singh emptied. Noises of footsteps and voices ebbed to nothing, and then there was silence.

  Alone, Singh worked on, slowly, methodically. The time for his rehras came and went, but he stayed at the terminal, plugging in his data and running his searches, as night fell around him.

  36

  GARVIE SMITH ARRIVED home from school on time, took his high tops off at the door, made his mother a cup of tea, went into his room and settled down at his quite astonishingly tidy table to begin his evening’s revision.

  ‘Citizenship,’ he said, ‘from four till five. Biology, five till six. Geography after tea.’

  His mother examined him carefully from his bedroom doorway.

  ‘All right,’ she said at last. ‘I don’t know if it’s going to stick, but at least you’re doing something. I recognize it.’

  ‘Told you. These exams are all I’m thinking about now.’

  ‘Is that right?’ She looked at him sceptically. ‘What’s your first? Tell me that.’

  ‘Maths, higher tier, calculator paper.’

  ‘And you know what you’ve got to do?’

  ‘Answer all questions in the spaces provided. You must not write on the formulae page. Mark allocations are shown in round brackets. If your calculator does not have a pi button, take the value of—’

  ‘All right, Garvie. When is the exam?’

  ‘Monday May the twenty-eighth, two thirty.’

  She looked sceptical again. ‘Doesn’t give you long to do a whole year’s work from scratch.’

  He glanced at his watch. ‘Twenty-eight days. Six hundred and seventy-two hours.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘Forty thousand three hundred and twenty minutes.’

  ‘All right, Garvie.’

  ‘Two million four hundred and nineteen thousand ...’

&n
bsp; But his mother had already moved away and was standing in the kitchen looking out of the window.

  At five o’clock Garvie dutifully began his biology revision.

  At six o’clock he had his tea.

  At seven o’clock he began his geography, finished it, and pushed on with physics.

  And at eight o’clock, as arranged, the telephone rang. He didn’t look up. He didn’t even look as if he were listening as his mother went across the living room to answer the phone.

  ‘Hello.’

  She caught the name of Felix and frowned. ‘He’s revising,’ she said shortly.

  After that there was a long silence from Mrs Smith in which she did a lot more frowning, then a low murmured conversation that was difficult for someone in another room to make out.

  Eventually she reappeared in the doorway of Garvie’s room, where he was apparently engrossed in his Physics Revision Guide. She was already changed into her hospital uniform.

  ‘That was Felix, your burglar friend. Says he’s revising maths.’

  ‘Felix? Revising? Are you sure?’

  ‘Must be taking an evening off from robbery. Says he’s stuck. He wanted me to ask you if by any chance you could go round and maybe help him with his probability. On account of you being a mathematical genius.’ She looked at him suspiciously.

  Garvie said, ‘Can’t it wait till tomorrow?’

  ‘He says he has to do it now. His revision schedule must be packed.’

  ‘Well.’ Garvie checked his watch. ‘I suppose I have put in four hours already on top of a full timetable at school. But, look, I won’t go if you don’t want me to. No way. I’ll stay here and do another couple of hours.’

  His mother gazed at him for what seemed like a long time.

  ‘All right, then,’ she said at last. ‘Maybe you need a break. And even burglars benefit from an education. I’m due on in half an hour, so I won’t be here when you get back. But don’t be later than ten. I don’t want any more distractions for you now till after the exams are over.’