Frankie (5 page)

The man's radio crackled into life, and he spoke loudly into it before turning back to Frankie and eyeing her up and down. ‘Which station, sweetheart?'

Frankie looked at him blankly – she hadn't given it any thought. ‘Paddington,' she said, choosing the first name that came into her head.

The man tapped lazily on the window, indicating a sign.
POLITE NOTICE. CUSTOMERS MAY BE ASKED TO PAY FOR THEIR JOURNEY IN ADVANCE
. Frankie was past caring. ‘Fine,' she told him, pulling out the money from her pocket. ‘How much?'

‘Thirty,' he replied gruffly, eyeing the notes she held in her hand.

Frankie counted out the money and passed it across the counter. ‘I'm in a hurry,' she told him curtly. ‘Where's the car?'

‘Why the hell didn't you call me earlier? What do you think I pay you for?'

‘I tried to, but your phone was switched off.' The man spoke with a thick Eastern European accent, but his words were clear and controlled.

‘Damn it! Did you get her name?'

‘Rosemary Gibson.'

The man at the other end of the phone went quiet. ‘I see,' he said finally. ‘Was she carrying anything?'

‘Just files, according to the security guard. She dropped them when she saw him. She was nervous.'

‘There was nothing else?'

‘No.'

‘And how long was she in my office?'

‘Eight minutes.'

‘Longer than it would take to deliver a few files?'

‘She didn't leave any files.'

‘And how did she seem when he spoke to her?'

‘Nervous, flustered.'

‘Did she say anything?'

‘She asked about Ray.'

‘And what did he tell her?'

‘What we discussed.'

‘Did she believe him?'

‘Yes.'

A frustrated sigh. ‘OK. We'd all better meet. In the meantime, you know what to do.'

‘Yes, Mr Tunney. I do know what to do.'

The cab driver didn't speak to Frankie. He just kept glancing at her in the rear-view mirror, suspicion etched on his face. Frankie ignored him – she could deal with suspicion as long as it didn't come from someone that could do her harm. This guy just wanted to earn his money and get her out of his cab.

The car radio was playing classical music very softly. Frankie allowed herself a few moments to close her eyes and let it wash over her, enjoying the warm fug of the car even if it was tempered by the cabbie's coldness. Music was a rare treat these days, something she loved but seldom heard – apart from the bland strains from invisible speakers in heated shopping centres. Occasionally buskers would work the same patch as her, but she tried to avoid them as they were invariably more successful at diverting the attention of generous passers-by. You always earned less if you were near a busker. The music on the radio sounded familiar, something she recalled from her childhood, but she couldn't put a name to it. Still, it took her back to Sunday afternoons, the radio on in the kitchen as her mother efficiently went about the business of cooking the roast. Her mother. She'd be shocked to think people like Bob Strut even existed, let alone that her only daughter had just killed one of them with a broken bottle. She hated the idea of anything encroaching on her ideal village life, and would do whatever she could to keep up the pretence that all was well with the world. Her friends called it cheerful optimism, one of her most admirable
qualities; but Frankie knew better. She knew more than anyone the secrets that house held, the secrets her mother kept from the world.

The car came to a halt. Frankie opened her eyes. The snow had stopped, and they were waiting at a set of traffic lights. ‘How much longer?' she asked the cab driver.

He refused to look at her. ‘Couple of minutes,' he grunted as the car moved off again and turned a corner.

Soon enough, Frankie saw a long line of red buses and recognized the large arches behind the Great Western Hotel – Paddington Station. ‘I'll get out here,' she said quietly, and the cab driver seemed only too happy to pull over. He didn't say a word as Frankie climbed out of the car.

She knew that before she did anything else, she needed to attend to the cut on her hand, so she headed briskly to a parade of shops just ahead. She walked for five minutes before she found a late-night pharmacy. A sticker in the window indicated that there was a CCTV camera inside, but Frankie had to take the risk. Not wanting to attract attention to her hand, or the questions that would come with it, she undid some of the buttons of her coat and rested her arm inside it before opening the door. There was only one other customer in the brightly lit chemist – a man buying cold remedies for his wife – and he left quickly once his transaction was complete. Keeping her head bowed, and her body turned away from the camera she had clocked behind the counter, Frankie browsed the shelves, trying to look nonchalant but desperately searching for what she wanted.

‘Can I help you?' The pharmacist was eyeing her.

‘I need a bandage.'

‘Behind you,' the pharmacist replied.

Frankie turned to see a selection of cream-coloured bandages sealed in see-through polythene wrappers. She grabbed a couple without really checking what size they were and walked up to place them on the small counter, keeping her head down all the time. ‘I need something to clean a cut with,' she muttered.

‘How bad's the cut?'

‘Pretty bad,' Frankie replied unhelpfully.

The pharmacist looked meaningfully at Frankie's arm. ‘Why don't you show me?' she asked, her voice softening slightly.

Frankie hesitated a moment, then pulled out her arm.

The pharmacist screwed up her face as she took a look. The makeshift bandage Frankie had created from her T-shirt was saturated with blood, which had started to clot and congeal around the edges. There were dark stains along her fingers where it had dripped and then dried to a sticky film, and her fingernails were an unpleasant mixture of grime and coagulated blood. Once the initial shock of the sight had subsided, the pharmacist looked Frankie straight in the eye. ‘You really should take this to casualty,' she told her. ‘St Mary's is only two minutes away. You need stitches, and probably a tetanus injection, otherwise it will just carry on bleeding and get infected.'

‘I can't,' Frankie's voice started to waver. ‘Please, give me whatever you can.'

The pharmacist seemed undecided, as if she was struggling to make the right decision. ‘OK,' she said. ‘I don't know what you're up to, but I'll help you if you promise to go to a hospital as soon as you can.'

‘I promise,' Frankie replied quickly, looking nervously over her shoulder.

The pharmacist went about collecting various bottles and packets. ‘You need to clean it thoroughly. Do you have a sink somewhere you can use?'

‘I'll find one.'

‘Mix this with warm water and soak your hand in it – it will probably hurt, but I've given you the strongest painkillers I can. Once it's clean, dry it, then stick this gauze along the cut. It should seal the skin and stop it bleeding. Then put the bandage round your hand.
Then
,' the pharmacist sounded almost like a headmistress, ‘go to hospital.'

Frankie smiled for the first time in days. ‘Thank you,' she said. She handed the pharmacist some money and turned to leave, but as she did so something caught her eye. She walked up to the shelf and took a small brown box, then looked around until she found a pair of long, silver nail scissors tightly packed in near-impenetrable plastic, and a small compact of foundation make-up. She took these items back to the counter and the pharmacist clocked them up on her till.

‘I don't know what you need with hair dye in your state, but just look after yourself, OK?' She gave Frankie a weary smile.

Frankie nodded. Don't worry, she thought. I can always look after myself. It's looking after other people that gets you into trouble.

Mary sat on the edge of the hospital bed and stared straight at the wall. Her eyes were still red from crying,
but there was a harshness to her face that made her look older than she was. It was as if the events of the evening had robbed her of whatever scraps of childhood she had managed to cling on to.

Ordinarily she might have been revolted by the laminated posters displaying symptoms of burns and skin infections, but they didn't seem to have any effect on her at all. A female doctor washed her hands carefully at a small sink, dried them on some paper towels which she dropped into a big yellow bin, then went to open the door. ‘I think I'm just about done,' she told the female police officer waiting outside.

‘How is she?' the officer asked.

‘In shock,' the doctor replied. ‘I'd like to keep her in for a couple of days.' The two women conferred in the corridor, leaving Mary to sit motionless on the bed. ‘She's going to be fine,' the doctor said in a low voice, ‘but she'll need some psychiatric care to deal with the trauma of what she saw tonight. I've given her a thorough examination, though. But as well as the fresh wounds on her face and body, this girl is showing signs of repeated physical abuse.'

‘What sort of signs?'

‘Two fingers on her right hand seem to have been broken in the past and allowed to heal without medical attention. There's what looks like a burn mark on one of her arms, and there's the remnants of severe bruising along the right-hand side of her abdomen.'

‘Could that have happened tonight?' the officer suggested.

‘No. The bruising is too old. I'd say that it happened a few weeks ago.'

‘Can you tell what it was?'

The doctor looked meaningfully at her and shrugged her shoulders. ‘She seems to have been hit with something. Or kicked. But I can't confirm that.'

The women stood in silence for a moment, their faces grim. ‘They've arranged for a social worker to come and see her in the morning,' the officer said finally. ‘And then she can be questioned. But I might just go in and keep her company for a bit. To reassure her that she's safe, if nothing else.'

‘Good idea. I'll be back in a moment.' The doctor walked down the corridor, her clipboard hugged to her chest, and the policewoman slipped quietly back into the hospital room. Mary watched her as she walked in, before resuming her original position and staring straight at the wall. The officer pulled up a stool and sat in front of her.

‘Mary.' The policewoman, who had already told her that she was called Lizzy, spoke in a low, calming voice. ‘You know you're not in trouble, don't you? All we want to do is help you. Why don't you just tell us where you live?'

It was as if Mary hadn't even heard her.

Lizzy tried again. ‘We can call your mum and dad and let them know where you are.'

Suddenly Mary shook her head in short, jerky movements.

‘Why not? They'll want to see you, won't they?'

Mary turned to Lizzy but kept her head low while she played nervously with her hands. ‘Please,' Mary whispered – the first words she had spoken since the police had arrived, ‘please, don't make me go back home.'

Immediately it made sense to Lizzy. ‘The doctor said
you have bruises down your side,' she said quietly. ‘Did that happen at home?'

Mutely, Mary nodded her head.

‘Was it your dad?'

She looked at first as though she wasn't going to answer, but then she shook her head. ‘I haven't got a dad,' her voice croaked.

‘Then who did this to you?'

Mary glanced around the room, as if checking that there was nobody else there.

‘Who did it to you?' Lizzy repeated. ‘You can tell me.'

She looked up with wide eyes at the police officer, and suddenly all the harshness of the street urchin fell from her face, leaving no more than a little girl, alone, confused and distraught.

‘It was my mum,' she whispered.

Lizzy stared at her, not knowing what to say.

‘Will she be in trouble?' Mary asked, before burying her head in her hands and dissolving into tears.

The big black departure boards at Paddington Station were getting emptier by the minute as the last trains of the evening left. Frankie clutched her plastic bag of pharmaceuticals and looked up at the destinations, searching for the place name that meant something to her. The concourse was busier than she would have expected at this time of night – drink-soaked office workers rushing to get the train home, mostly, and a few people with heavy suitcases heading for Heathrow. Everyone seemed to be in a hurry, but that didn't stop Frankie feeling as though she stuck out like a beggar outside Buckingham Palace. And no matter how rushed everybody seemed,
they all appeared to her to find the time to stare quizzically in her direction. Or maybe that was just her imagination.

An announcement came over the tannoy. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, please be aware that pickpockets operate in this area. You are advised to keep all your personal belongings close to hand at all times.' Frankie involuntarily touched the pocket that held the remains of her money, and then she smiled ruefully to herself. She knew enough pickpockets to know that she was the last sort of person who would be their target. Still, it felt strange to have cash in her pocket.

She thought about using one of the credit cards she had to buy a ticket out of London, but soon discounted that idea – she didn't know much about these things, but surely the police would be able to trace her then, and find out where she had escaped to. So instead she headed to the ticket office where she could pay with cash, and was relieved when the bored-looking man behind the counter barely gave her a second look. ‘Single or return?' he asked in a monotone voice.

‘Single,' Frankie replied quietly.

Her train left in fifteen minutes. She felt nervous just hanging around, so she headed over to McDonald's, one of the few places that were still open. McDonald's washrooms were where Frankie – along with almost everyone else she knew on the street – went when they wanted to maintain some level of personal hygiene. They often got kicked out – when the poorly paid staff were enthusiastic enough about their jobs to bother with them – but at least it was somewhere they could wash in relative peace. It was hardly the height of luxury, but it served its
purpose. She had no intention of washing here tonight, though – that could wait for the train. For once she had a bit of money in her pocket, and could buy herself something to eat. It was surprisingly busy as people stocked up with fast food for their journeys; Frankie ordered herself a burger and a hot drink.

She wolfed down the burger in a matter of minutes – she had forgotten how hungry she was until she took the first bite – but the coffee was too hot to gulp down, so she took it with her to the waiting train. She climbed on, found seats at an empty table and flung herself down, exhausted.