Stolen Angels

by Shaun Hutson

  ‘I’m sorry, Frank,’ Cath said, softly.

  ‘I want my daughter back,’ he said, angrily. ‘And it’s getting to the stage where I don’t care how I get her.’

  They sat in silence for what seemed like an eternity, then Reed got to his feet.

  ‘I’d better be going.’

  Cath rose with him.

  ‘Frank, if there’s anything I can do to help-‘ she began.

  He cut her short. ‘What, like drive the getaway car when I snatch Becky?’

  ‘Don’t say that.’

  She walked with him to the door of the flat, watching as he slipped on his jacket. He turned to face her.

  ‘I won’t lose Becky’ he said.

  Cath embraced him, holding him close to her, feeling his warm breath against her cheek.

  She kissed him lightly on the lips.

  ‘Sorry to spoil the evening’ he said, apologetically.

  ‘You didn’t. I understand how you must feel.’

  ‘No you don’t, Cath. I hope you never have to understand what it feels like.’

  He kissed her again, his lips pressing a little harder against hers.

  ‘Call me tomorrow’ she said as he stepped out into the hallway. She watched him walk to the lift then closed the door, leaning against it.

  ‘Shit,’ she sighed, wearily.

  Eighteen

  The boy knew that the man was coming for him.

  He came for him most nights.

  Sometimes he stank of drink.

  Then he would come with anger and there would be pain.

  At other times he came with kindness and there would be little suffering. He would speak to him softly, reassure him, praise him. Sometimes even smile at him.

  Tonight there were no smiles.

  The boy heard the banging of the door as it was hurled open, rocking back on its hinges, and he saw the man silhouetted in the bedroom doorway.

  The figure paused, swaying uncertainly, then lurched towards the boy, who drew the sheets more tightly around his neck, perhaps hoping they would form an impenetrable cocoon to protect him.

  Above him the figure bent down, then gripped the sheets and tore them away, exposing the boy’s frail body.

  And then the boy caught that smell.

  The stink of alcohol, the acrid stench of sweat and another stronger odour. A musky, choking stench which seemed to grow stronger.

  The boy wanted to scream.

  He opened his mouth but no sound would escape; then when he felt the blow across his cheeks, first one then the other, he knew he must remain silent.

  And he knew he must keep his mouth open.

  God help me.

  But then why should he help tonight? He turned his back every other time.

  Somebody help me.

  He wanted to scream.

  He had to scream.

  And finally, he did.

  James Talbot sat bolt upright, eyes staring, dragged from the nightmare by invisible hands.

  There was a bellow of pain and rage echoing in his ears.

  His own bellow.

  ‘Jesus’ he gasped. ‘Jesus. Jesus.’

  He smelled his own sweat.

  ‘Fuck’ he panted.

  Talbot tried to swallow but it felt as if his throat had been filled with chalk.

  ‘I’m as mad as hell and I’m not going to take it any more…’

  The voice shouted at him.

  Talbot stared frantically around him.

  ‘Who …’ he began.

  ‘Let me hear you, I’m as mad as hell and I’m not going to take this any more …’

  He looked at the television screen, saw the source of the voice.

  Talbot jabbed the Off button on the remote.

  Silence.

  ‘Fuck’ he whispered. ‘Fuck.’

  He sat forward in his seat, leaning his elbows on his knees, and rubbing his forehead with his fingertips. Talbot kept his eyes closed tightly but the fragments of his dream floated into view, fractured images which only disappeared when he opened his eyes. He took several deep breaths, trying to slow the thunderous pounding of his heart, afraid it would burst.

  He glanced across at the clock on the mantelpiece.

  11.42 p.m.

  He didn’t know how long he’d been asleep. Couldn’t remember.

  Didn’t fucking care.

  He got to his feet and wandered through into the kitchen where he spun the cold tap over the sink, scooping water into his sweating palms. He splashed his face with the cold water, then drank some from the gushing stream, forcing away the dryness in his throat. He gripped the edges of the sink for a moment, eyes closed again, water running down his face.

  Then he turned and headed for the hall, where he picked up his car keys and, slamming the front door behind him, stepped out into the night.

  Talbot had no idea how long he’d been driving.

  The streets were quiet at such a late hour. He’d passed the usual traffic on main roads but the less populated thoroughfares of Finsbury Park, Tottenham Hale and Harringay were virtually deserted.

  The DI sat behind the wheel of the Volvo, arms resting on it, gazing across the darkened street.

  From where he was parked he could see only the low stone wall which fronted the building opposite.

  It was in total darkness apart from a light burning outside the main entrance.

  There were a couple of cars parked outside, but certainly no sign of movement either inside or outside the building.

  Talbot sat motionless for what seemed like an eternity, only his fingertips

  moving gently, rhythmically, on the steering wheel.

  As he switched on his headlights the name plate on the low wall opposite was illuminated: litton vale nursing home. He stuck the car in gear and swung it around in the street, intent on heading home.

  He didn’t know how long it would take him.

  He didn’t care.

  Nineteen

  ‘They knew they were going to die,’ said Frank Reed, pressing his fingertips together. ‘Most of them wanted to.’

  ‘Why, sir?’ a voice from the back of the class called.

  ‘Because they were stupid,’ another answered.

  There was a ripple of laughter.

  ‘Because they were French,’ another added.

  ‘Same thing’ the second voice echoed.

  The whole classroom erupted into a chorus of loud and raucous laughter.

  Even Reed smiled as he got to his feet and crossed to the map pinned to one side of the blackboard, leaving the rest free for him to write on.

  He stood beside it, scanning the faces of his pupils. Girls and boys: girls and boys aged eleven to twelve. He glanced at the row of faces: thirty-eight in his class.

  It was too many. He knew it, his colleagues who were dealing with similar size classes knew it. Everyone knew it except the Government, it appeared to Reed.

  He walked across to the window of the classroom and looked out. From his position he could see the Employment Exchange and, beyond that, the Adult Education centre. St Michael’s Secondary School had been built close by them, and Reed wondered if he was the only one who saw the irony. Most of the kids he taught faced a life without work and, for many, a little further down the way in Old Street was Hackney Police Station and Magistrates Court. For most of his temporary charges, Reed felt that at some time in their lives they would encounter either one or the other.

  Life didn’t hold too much promise for the young or old in this part of Hackney.

  He waited until the laughter had died down, then returned to the map.

  It showed the battlefield of Waterloo.

  ‘Napoleon’s Old Guard were elite troops,’ Reed continued. ‘They were the Emperor’s personal bodyguard and they felt it their duty and an honour to die for him. They were also the final rearguard for the defeated French army. They stood and fought long enough for the rest of the army to run away and for Napoleon to escape.’


  Eyes followed him expectantly as he paced back and forth.

  ‘Does anyone know what the Old Guard’s officer shouted back when asked to surrender?’ The teacher looked around expectantly. ‘Come on, you should have read it last night.’

  A hand went up close by.

  A young boy with a very short haircut and frayed sleeves on his blazer.

  Reed nodded.

  ‘He shouted back “The Guard never dies”, sir,’ said the boy.

  ‘That’s very good. He actually said “The Guard dies but never surrenders”.

  Historians have interpreted his answer this way. He actually shouted “Merde.”’

  There was a chuckle from the front of the class.

  Reed suppressed a smile. ‘And what do you want to share with us, David?’ he asked.

  David Morris coloured slightly.

  ‘Well, my sister does French, and when I asked her what that word meant she said it meant-‘

  Reed interrupted him. ‘I’m sure she told you what it meant, but that wouldn’t look too good in the history books, would it?’ he said, smiling.

  ‘What does it mean, sir?’ an excited voice called.

  ‘It means shit,’ Morris whispered. ‘Sorry, sir,’ he added, rapidly, looking warily at Reed.

  The teacher was no longer able to suppress his grin, and the rest of the class erupted into a chorus of laughter.

  ‘Right,’ Reed said over the din. ‘So you all know that the commander of the Old Guard used to swear.’

  ‘I d swear if I was about to get shot,’ a voice added.

  ‘My mum and dad swear all the time and no one’s ever tried to shoot them’ another offered.

  More laughter.

  Reed looked around at the faces. Happy faces.

  Except one.

  A boy sat alone at the back of the classroom, his head slumped on his arms, his eyes gazing blankly at the top of his desk as if he were tracing the pattern of the wood. He ran one chewed fingernail gently over the back of his hand, seemingly oblivious to the sounds of merriment around him.

  Reed knew the boy as Paul O’Brian. Twelve years old. A tall lad with thin lips and fine black hair.

  He was about to call to the boy when the strident ringing of the bell cut through the air.

  It was the signal for frenzied activity. Books were snatched up and shoved into bags, pencils were pushed back into pockets, exercise books gratefully stowed.

  ‘Read chapter twelve tonight’ Reed called out. ‘You can find out if Napoleon used to swear, too.’ He smiled to himself, returning to his desk as the children filed out quickly.

  Paul O’Brian followed, alone. Shuffling as fast as he could, head down.

  As he passed in front of Reed’s desk, the teacher saw that the boy was shivering. ‘Paul, can I have a word with you?’ Reed said. ‘It won’t take a minute.’

  O’Brian stopped, his gaze still lowered.

  ‘If I’ve done anything wrong …’ he murmured almost inaudibly.

  ‘You haven’t done anything wrong,’ Reed assured him, noticing how the boy never met his gaze. He merely stood motionless before him, arms at his sides.

  ‘I just wondered if you were feeling OK,’ Reed said. ‘You were very quiet today. Usually I can’t shut you up.’ He smiled reassuringly.

  O’Brian clasped his hands in front of him.

  Reed frowned.

  Around both the boy’s wrists there were vivid red marks.

  As if aware of Reed’s gaze, O’Brian pulled down the sleeves of his jacket to hide the abrasions.

  ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ Reed persisted.

  O’Brian nodded.

  Reed saw another mark on his neck, close to the open top button of his shirt.

  It was bluish-black. Like a bruise, the extremities yellowing and mottled.

  ‘Can I go now please, sir?’ O’Brian asked, head still lowered.

  Reed sighed. ‘Yes, go on. You’ll be late for lunch.’

  O’Brian was gone as hastily as his spindly legs would carry him.

  Reed sat down at his desk, his brow furrowed.

  He could understand the boy’s silence. His baby sister, Carla, had died just a week earlier. The atmosphere at his home must be distressing. That could account for the boy’s withdrawn state.

  And the marks on his wrists and neck?

  Reed administered a mental rebuke. Perhaps he was overreacting.

  But those abrasions on the wrists had looked bad. Raw in places.

  The teacher shook his head.

  There would be a perfectly logical answer.

  There had to be.

  He picked up his bag and left the classroom.

  Twenty

  James Talbot brought the Volvo to a halt in the car park of Litton Vale Nursing Home and switched off the engine. He remained behind the wheel, gazing at the building, then he swung himself out of the car, scooping up the Cellophane-wrapped bunch of flowers in the process.

  The gravel of the short pathway leading up to the main entrance crunched beneath his feet as he walked, and a light breeze rustled the flowers.

  Litton Vale was built of grey stone, but the ivy climbing its walls and the beds of immaculately kept flowers which formed a frontage to the stonework helped to soften the forbidding appearance of the place. It was Victorian in origin but a new wing had been added only ten years earlier. It looked somewhat incongruous with its red bricks, nestling against the great grey bulk of the main building.

  The scent of blossom was strong in the morning air but Talbot hardly noticed it. He continually switched the bunch of flowers from one hand to the other, aware that his palms were sweaty.

  Nervous?

  He climbed the short flight of stone steps to the main entrance and walked through into the reception area. To his right was the day room, to his left a staircase which

  led to the first storey. There was a chair lift attached to it and, in addition, at the bottom of the corridor behind him, there were lifts.

  The thick carpet seemed to muffle sounds within the building, even Talbot’s own footsteps as he moved down the corridor.

  To one side of him there were rooms, and to his left was an enormous picture window looking out over a pond, which was surrounded by a Japanese garden.

  Several wooden benches were set up there and he saw people sitting on them.

  Men and women.

  He recognised one or two.

  At the end of the corridor he pushed his way through a set of double doors, walking through what looked like an enormous sitting room. There were sofas and chairs dotted all around, but mainly pointing towards a large television set close to an open fireplace.

  The television was on, the sound turned up high.

  Seated in one of the chairs close to the set was a woman in her eighties.

  She smiled broadly at Talbot as he passed through, and he returned the gesture, again switching the bunch of flowers from hand to hand.

  His heart was beating that little bit quicker now.

  What is there to be afraid of?

  The walls were covered by a warm lemon-tinted wallpaper and adorned with many gaily coloured paintings. Everything in the home was designed to be welcoming, soothing to the eye.

  As he passed through the next set of double doors he almost bumped into one of the staff members.

  She was in her mid-forties, dressed in the familiar dark blue uniform which Talbot had come to know so well.

  ‘Hello, Mr Talbot’ she said, cheerfully. ‘Nice flowers.’ She bent forward and sniffed them. ‘Lilies, aren’t they?’

  ‘I’m a copper, not a florist, Mary’ he said, smiling.

  ‘If all coppers were as good looking as you, I wouldn’t mind getting arrested’

  the woman said, chuckling.

  ‘I’ve got my handcuffs with me.’

  She slapped him playfully on the arm.

  ‘Cheeky,’ she giggled, then disappeared into a room to the right.


  Talbot paused for a moment.

  They all think you’re so fucking wonderful, don’t they?

  The smell of the flowers was beginning to make him feel nauseous.

  Talbot paused at the next set of doors.

  Through the glass panels in each of them he could see out into the gardens beyond. Immaculately kept lawns, flanked by flower beds and conifers. There were more wooden benches too. Two sparrows were perched on the edge of a birdbath close to the door.

  They flew off when he stepped out into the garden.

  Talbot watched them fly away, disappearing over the line of conifers, then he spotted what he sought.

  The single figure was seated in a white-painted wooden seat on a patio nearby.

  There was a walking stick propped against the chair.

  Come on. Get it over with.

  He swallowed hard and set off towards the figure.

  The smell of freshly cut grass mingled with the aroma of so many flowers.

  Somewhere off to his left he could hear the sound of a lawnmower. There was even laughter coming from behind him but he couldn’t see its source.

  Laughter.

  As he drew closer, the figure turned to face him and Talbot held out the bunch of flowers as if he were warding off some predatory beast. He managed a broad smile which never touched his eyes.

  You bastard. At least try and be convincing.

  ‘Hello, Mum’ he said, softly.

  Twenty-one

  Dorothy Talbot rose shakily to her feet, smiling, her arms extended.

  She was dressed in an immaculately pressed green two-piece suit and her white hair was held in place by hair laquer. As Talbot embraced her he felt her head brushing against his shoulder. She gripped him tightly to her, then stood back and kissed him on the cheek. Her own face was ruddy and she looked remarkably healthy, more closely resembling a woman who has spent her life in the countryside than one who had hardly ever set foot outside London for her whole life. . She gripped Talbot’s hand and he felt the swollen veins beneath the flesh as he squeezed it, helping her to sit down again. He pulled another chair across and sat down opposite her, watching as she looked gratefully at the flowers he’d brought.

  ‘They’re beautiful’ she said. Then she squeezed his hand again. ‘It’s so good to see you, Jim. I wasn’t expecting you today.’