Authors: Sarah Masters
The boy's eyes twinkled with tears, and he stared at Croft. “Dad. Dad. That's one of them.” He pulled away a little and pointed at Croft.
Croft's heart sank. “You all right, mate?” He took a step farther into the room.
"It's all right, son. It's all right. Croft's one of the good guys."
Darrow's son? Fuck me sideways.
"What?” the boy asked, cocking his head.
"Did he hurt you?” Darrow asked, gripping the boy's chin between finger and thumb to make his son look at him.
"No, he...he was nice. Fed me. Talked to me. Made sure I was always all right."
"That's because he's the one who brought me here, son. Do you understand? He told me about this place.
He's
the one who saved you all."
Croft's emotions spilled over, and a relieved sob barked from his mouth. “It's all right, mate,” he choked out. “Everything's going to be all right. I told you that, didn't I, eh?"
Backing out of the room, his vision blurred, Croft stumbled past two policemen and pushed open the holding room door. The lads were all crying, some silently, some with great racking sobs, and Croft sought out Fraser, dying to see him, dying to make sure he was okay.
He spotted him in a corner being checked over by a policeman. At Croft's approach, Fraser widened his eyes and smiled through the tears. He flew at Croft, gripping him around the waist, his naked body trembling.
Looking up at Croft he said, “Those other boys, they told me... We weren't being adopted like you said. They said... But it's all right, because the police are here. Tell them not to let me go back home. Tell them, please. I can't go back there."
"You're not going home.” Darrow's voice behind him brought a surge of relief to Croft. “Not to your parents anyway."
Croft turned his head to look at Darrow, who stood in the doorway, his son glued to his side. Croft mouthed “Thank you” and tried to hold his tears back. He failed. They spilled, a hot and steady stream, and he let them have their way. It had been a long, hard six months, and now he'd face the consequences of his part in this shit.
"Hopefully,” Darrow said, stepping closer, “you'll be living with your brother."
Croft stared down at Fraser.
"You've found him?” Fraser asked, looking at Darrow, hope displayed plainly on his face.
"You're hugging him,” Darrow said, his own tears falling.
"What?” Fraser stared up at Croft. “
Ben?
"
"Yes, mate,” Croft said, the words strained and tight.
He couldn't manage to say anything else as his throat closed and emotion claimed him.
Frost was marched out of his house, greeted by the sight of police vans and cars on his lawn. Their tyres had gouged great muddy swathes out of the grass, and he gritted his teeth at the mess they'd made.
No fucking respect for other people's property.
Shunted toward a van, Frost memorised the license plate. Shoved inside, his hands cuffed behind him, he sat on a bench opposite Jonathan and Kevin.
The van doors slammed shut.
"James Klein's been informed,” Frost said. “He'll take over until we get out."
Jonathan nodded. “Fifteen years max?"
"Yeah. Fifteen sweet years, just like the majority of our lads.” Frost laughed heartily. “Seven for good behaviour."
"S'long time, boss.” Jonathan stared at the floor.
"Yeah, it is if you intend serving it.” Frost smiled.
"What do you mean?” Kevin asked, frowning.
"Like I said.” Frost grinned. “Klein's been informed. Speed dial warning—the wonders of modern technology. We're not even going to make it to the police station."
"Ah.” Jonathan nodded.
"Thing is, I wanted Croft with us.” Frost picked a speck of fibre off his trousers. “He'll enjoy Spain, I reckon."
"Yeah. He could do with getting a tan.” Kevin chuckled.
Frost sighed. “Let's just hope he gets put in this van with us then, eh?” He took out his phone and selected the message option, punching in the van's registration number. Wrote: Whoever is inside, get them to safety. He pressed SEND then stamped the phone underfoot. Reaching down, he picked it up and worked through the mangled back until he prised out the small SIM card. Popping that into his mouth, he swallowed. All his contact numbers gone. Klein used a disposable and would ditch it the minute he'd finished organising what had to be done. They all used unregistered pay-as-you-go phones.
Frost smiled smugly. “Your turn."
He'd instructed all his men to do this with their phones if they got caught. He imagined them doing so now as Jonathan and Kevin took the backs off theirs and swallowed their SIMs.
"What about the others who weren't here tonight?” Jonathan asked.
"What about them? They're not here so don't need to know what's happened."
The van door swung open, and a security guard filled the space. In all the commotion, Frost hadn't given a thought to being led outside by security people he'd hired.
Security people
Croft
had hired.
"Fuck!” he growled, eyeing the van ceiling.
That little fucking bastard!
"Out!” said the guard, jerking his head.
Frost allowed Jonathan and Kevin to leave the van first, giving himself time to work through the panic overtaking him. Croft had betrayed him, probably knew all about Fraser being his brother, and now they were being ushered across the damn grass toward a
different
van?
Suddenly, fifteen years didn't seem so funny.
Later, Croft stood with Darrow, Russell, Toby, and a senior detective in Frost's living room. He gained a warped sense of satisfaction that everyone had traipsed over the white carpet with their shoes on. As the detectives talked, his mind turned to Fraser, who had been taken to the police station, where the doctor would check the boys over and gently question them about their ordeal. The process could take days, or even weeks with counsellors used to dealing with children who had suffered this kind of trauma.
They would need extensive therapy, but Croft hoped they'd all come through okay. He'd saved them a harsher incarceration while they'd been here and could only hope his kindness had gone some way to easing the psychological damage their ordeal had caused.
"You won't be going anywhere, will you, Croft?” Darrow said, bringing Croft out of his reverie.
"Hmm? What was that?” Croft's face burned.
"As I was telling Chief Inspector Bartram, you're not a threat. Your being here was under duress, and by helping those boys instead of helping Frost, you've proved, at least to us, that you pose no threat to the public. You'll have to be questioned, no doubt about that, but I really don't see you need locking up. There'll be a trial, but I think your cooperation and behaviour toward the boys will hold you in good stead."
Relief left Croft weak.
"Do you have somewhere you can stay?” Darrow asked. “Stupid question. Sorry. Would you like us to set you up some place? It might be advisable to move somewhere further afield. If Russell and Toby's story is anything to go by, Frost has a long reach. Who knows whether he has contacts out there who might try and find you?"
Croft's stomach lurched. “Yeah. I see what you mean. Fraser...?"
Darrow smiled. “After he's been initially questioned and given support with experts in the field, we can arrange for him to come to you. Might be a couple of days. Mind you, seeing as Fraser was only here overnight, he probably won't need much medical attention, but he
will
need counselling to help him understand the abuse he suffered at home wasn't his fault. Can you handle that and everything that goes with it?"
Croft nodded, unable to say a word, the emotion of the moment too much.
"He can stay with us, if he likes,” Russell said. “In Wraxford."
"Might be too far from Fraser,” Toby said.
Russell smiled. Shrugged a little. “Yeah, well. The offer's there."
The boy sat in a room much like a living room, dressed now in grey, loose tracksuit bottoms and a red T-shirt that was a little too big. He recalled the red coat he'd worn out on the streets, and it brought Pete to mind and the nights they'd slept by the oil drum fire.
A woman sat opposite him in a matching armchair, clipboard on her lap. She looked kind, light wrinkles around her eyes, her auburn hair hanging in soft waves around her face. Her jeans and baggy sweater made her appear normal, nothing like the counsellor she'd announced herself to be when she'd entered the room.
He'd expected a stern woman in a suit, hair pulled back so tight it made her look Chinese.
"How are you, Fraser?” she asked, smiling.
"All right.” He returned the smile.
"Would you like to tell me about what happened? You don't have to yet, if it's too painful, but if you want to talk, I'll listen."
Her voice was one Fraser had imagined a proper mother's to be, and he warmed to her immediately. Words tumbled out quicker than he had time to form them, and he had to take a deep breath and slow down.
When he'd finished, the woman smiled at him and nodded.
"I think you're going to be just fine,” she said, placing the clipboard on a coffee table between the chairs.
"I reckon so. Now I've found my brother.” He frowned then. “Can you get a message to someone for me?"
"Of course. Who would that be?"
"Pete."
"Pete who?"
"I don't know. He just told me his name was Pete."
"Is he one of the men from the house?"
"No. He's an old bloke I met when I left home. He was my friend."
"Do you know where I can find him?"
"Yeah. He sleeps under the bridge down by that disused car park off Moreland Road."
She picked up her clipboard and scribbled a few words. “What would you like me to tell him?"
"Just let him know the van took me, but I'm all right. That the police found me."
"Okay."
"He said he'd tell the police I'd been taken, see, and even if they didn't listen, I want him to think they did."
Russell sat on the end of their bed in the Wraxford flat and looked around the room. Cardboard boxes filled the available floor space, leaving only a narrow aisle for them to get to the wardrobe, chest of drawers, and bed. They'd been packing for the last fortnight, and he was amazed at the amount of crap they'd accumulated. He supposed people hoarded when they thought they'd settled in one place for the foreseeable future. Though he and Toby had been aware Frost would try and find them, a small part of Russell hadn't believed he would.
How wrong can a person be?
Much of their stuff had been taken to charity shops or the dump, leaving only the necessities and a few keepsakes they couldn't bear to part with.
Their last meeting with Darrow after the intense police questioning gave them much food for thought. It was best they changed their names, Russell knew that deep down, what with some of Frost's men still out there and free. They couldn't run the risk of being hunted down again. If they hid behind an alias, at least their only fear would be, by some cruel twist of fate that didn't bear thinking about, them being recognised by one of them. But it would be hard to get used to being called something else.
Mind you, if they stayed away from London and Wraxford, maybe they'd be left in peace. Who knew, though, how far Frost's reach was? There'd been talk of a Spanish operation, maybe even one in France, a band of men, all linked in the sordid business of sex trafficking. Russell had trouble comprehending such a massive outfit, and
why
these perverts wanted kids that way.
What the fuck's up with them? It's wrong. Just bloody wrong.
Sighing, he sorted through the last few books in a stack by his feet. He didn't want to part with any of them, but like Toby had said, they weren't necessities, and books could be bought again. The less they had to take with them the better. But it wouldn't be the same. When the book spines were marked with lines where he'd left the book facedown and open on the arm of a chair, the pages folded over in the top corner to mark his place, they became a part of him. A well-loved friend.
In a fit of acceptance, he picked the pile of books up and placed them all in a box, folding down the lid flaps to hide them, as though if he couldn't see what the box contained, then the books weren't in there.
Silly to be so attached to
things
when they'd been through so much, been shown what was really important, but he'd found, since returning home, that it was the little things that mattered now. His ambition, if he ever had any, had deserted him. All he wanted was to live in fucking peace, without fear. Without being scared.
He stood, smiling at the sound of Toby pottering about in the kitchen making dinner. That man had taken it upon himself to learn to cook well, and Russell wondered if it was them being so hungry after their ordeal, having gone without food for their duration at Frost's, that had prompted Toby to appreciate their meals.
They appreciated many things now. Still being together was one of them.
Still being alive was another.
Russell walked into the kitchen and leaned on the doorjamb. He gritted his teeth at the sharp pain from one of his healing welts. The skin was tight around the affected area. Antibiotics had cleared up any infection before it had the chance to infest his body, but it seemed his muscles and skin had a tough time getting better until the last day or so. It would take a while for the scars to heal, but longer for those in his mind to be something he could deal with without shaking. He kept the memories locked up, unable and unwilling to revisit the past. At least for now. The upcoming trial would bring it all back into sharp focus, but that was a long way off. Once
that
was over, maybe the pair of them could finally put the past to rest and start again without worrying over every glance or funny look from a stranger.
He studied Toby, who was unaware he was being watched, iPod headphones jammed in his ears, his head bobbing to a beat that told of him listening to one of his dance tracks. Toby quick-fried some chicken breasts on the hob opposite the door—sealing in the flavour he'd informed Russell earlier—ready for them to be popped in the slow cooker in a spicy curry sauce of his own making.