Under Cover (Agent 21) (10 page)

Aside from the back door, and the door that led into the pantry, there was one other door from the kitchen; it led into a small box room to one side. Inside this room, Izzy knew, there was a bank of closed-circuit television screens. Her father was obsessed with security, and every part of the exterior of the house was covered by a security camera.

Or so he thought.

The cameras fed directly to this room and anyone in there could watch the comings and goings of the house. The video feeds were constantly recorded. Sometimes there was a security person there to monitor them in real time. But Izzy had known, ever since she was old enough to play in the garden by herself, that not
every
part of the garden was covered by those cameras. It was possible to get from the kitchen door to the wall at the bottom of the garden – admittedly by a very roundabout route – without appearing on those little monitors off the kitchen. One of her favourite games as a child had been to see how secretly she could complete that route. She’d never thought that her little game would become useful.

A key to the kitchen door was in its usual place in one of the cutlery drawers. Izzy grabbed it, then headed to the back door, pausing only to stuff a few of the little cakes – not enough to be missed – into her pack.

She stopped.

What did she think she was doing, running away into the freezing, snowy night? She wouldn’t last a day.

Her shoulders slumped in defeat. She almost turned to go back to her room.

But then she caught sight of her reflection in the glass of the door. Pale. Frightened. Bruised. Bleeding. It reminded her that she would be no less safe on the streets than here at home.

She took a deep breath, unlocked the door and stepped outside.

The air and the swirling blizzard stung her face – it was much colder than she had expected. There was at least five centimetres of snow on the ground, which meant there was no way she could avoid leaving footprints. At least, she thought to herself, the swirling snow would hide them from anybody looking out of the window, and would cover them up soon enough.

She closed and locked the door behind her.

Rather than head directly towards the gate at the bottom of the garden, she turned immediately right and started weaving her way round some snow-covered flower beds. After a minute, she came to the old swing that she hadn’t used for years. Here she turned left again and, keeping to the edge of the small vegetable patch where the large winter cabbages were laden with snow, she crept towards the brick wall at the bottom of the garden. It was about three metres high and covered with a sturdy vine. In the summer, its leaves covered the whole wall, but now it was nothing but bare, strong branches. Along the top of the wall she knew there was a line of barbed wire to deter intruders, but it was covered now in several centimetres of snow.

There was a gate another five metres to her left, but Izzy knew the cameras were watching it. This part of the wall, though, was a blind spot. She grabbed a fistful of vine branch. It creaked slightly, but held her weight as she used it to climb up the wall. She didn’t want to disturb the snow on the top of the wall or, more importantly, get tangled in the barbed wire. So as she reached the top, she flung her legs athletically over the wall. A little cloud of powder sprayed in the air as she vaulted over.

She landed on the other side of the wall in a painful, crumpled heap, but she quickly stood up again. She was in the narrow alleyway that ran behind the White House, and for a moment she hesitated. She stared at the kitchen key in the palm of her gloved hand. If she kept hold of it, she could at least creep back inside the house if she changed her mind.

‘But I
won’t
be changing my mind,’ she whispered to herself. So she let the key fall. It disappeared into the snow at her feet.

Izzy checked her watch. Eleven p.m. One hour till Christmas, she thought to herself as she looked both ways down the alley. Left or right? she wondered.

It didn’t really matter. Either direction would take her away from the White House and out into the streets of London. She certainly couldn’t stay with friends. The very first thing their parents would do was call Izzy’s mum and dad. She’d be back in hell before she knew it.

No. From now on, the streets were going to be her home.

Eleven p.m.

Ricky had never seen a blizzard like it. From his warm penthouse apartment he watched it swirl so thickly over the city that the skyline was barely visible. The light on the top of Canary Wharf flashed dimly, and he could just make out the vague silhouette of London Bridge.

He’d tried watching telly. As soon as he’d switched it on, there had been an advert for powdered gravy. A family sitting around their Christmas meal, all smiles and happiness. Ricky couldn’t watch. He had immediately switched off the telly and stared into space, thinking about his mum and dad, and of course his sister Madeleine.

She had been older than him. Nearly sixteen when their parents had died. After the car crash, she had been sent to a different set of foster parents to Ricky. They had treated her badly. Very badly. Ricky found his temperature rising at the thought of it, and for the first time since he had been off the streets, he dug out the precious letter she had written him:

But as usual, he couldn’t bear to read to the end. Fighting back tears, he tucked the letter into its envelope and went back to staring into space.

He couldn’t stop thinking about his big sister. She had been so
kind
. The year before their parents had died, it had been Madeleine who insisted that they spend their Christmas Eve working at a soup kitchen. That was the kind of person she was. Always thinking about other people. Not like Ricky, who was always thinking about himself.

– Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Life isn’t so bad. Look around you. This is better than Baxter’s, isn’t it?

– Yeah, but why am I here? The streets are full of kids like me.

– Compassion, Ricky? Don’t let it get the better of you. Look at the scar on your wrist. The Thrownaways did that, remember? They aren’t quite like you.

Ricky ignored his inner voice. He was suddenly angry. Angry with the world, and angry with Felix. He felt like disobeying him, like doing something he wouldn’t approve of, but that his older sister
would
.

And doing it now.

He grabbed the rucksack Felix had given him and strode into the kitchen. As usual, the fridge was full of food. A whole cooked chicken. Bags of apples and oranges. Cans of Coke. Ready-made salads. Cakes. More than he could eat, and he knew the fridge would soon be replenished anyway. He paused a moment as he spotted some special Christmassy food – a packet of mince pies, a pud, a tray of Christmas veggies ready to zap in the microwave. A bit of Christmas cheer from Felix, then . . . But it didn’t stop him. He stuffed the rucksack full of food and drinks, then put on a warm hooded top and grabbed a fistful of notes from the sock under his mattress. He slung the rucksack over his shoulder. On a sideboard in the hallway, he saw the knife that Felix had confiscated from the druggie woman in Bloomsbury Square. Next to it, a ballpoint pen.

His fingers hovered over the knife for a few seconds. But he didn’t touch it. Madeleine wouldn’t approve. Instead, he grabbed the pen and shoved it in his pocket. Then he left the flat.

Outside the apartment block, he tramped through the snow. It took five minutes for his feet and hands to go numb, but he kept walking. Only after another ten minutes did he see the orange of a black cab’s ‘For Hire’ sign. He flagged it down, and when the driver pulled up alongside him and lowered his window, shouted, ‘King’s Cross.’

The driver was a white-haired man in his sixties, and he didn’t look very cheerful. ‘You got money, kid?’

Ricky pushed back his hood, put his hand in his pocket and held up two twenty-pound notes. The cab driver nodded, and Ricky climbed into the back.

It was blissfully warm in the cab. His breath misted the windows as they drove along the river, then north up Kingsway. The driver didn’t speak as they drove, and Ricky was glad about that because there was already a conversation going on in his head.

– You’re crazy. The Thrownaways will be cold and hungry. They’ll go for you.

– I don’t care. It’s Christmas. Why should I have all this food and everybody else go hungry? Anyway, I’m not Felix’s little pet. I don’t have to stay home and do what he says.

The fare came to £35. Ricky stepped out in front of King’s Cross station and waited for the grumpy cab driver to pull away. He checked his watch. Five minutes to midnight. The main road was still busy but the pavements were emptying fast and fresh snow had settled on the slush. He scanned the surrounding area, and found his mind instantly recording everything he saw. A number 63 bus heading west. A couple on the opposite side of the road, arm in arm, battling their way through the snow. Two police officers in fluorescent hi-viz jackets surveying the traffic. A girl in a woollen hat heading for the main road. Two drunks staggering towards the station . . .

He was facing a dark side street. Dustbins on either side. Only one street lamp working, and that was flickering with a dim yellow light. The snow was falling more heavily than ever and he could see the silhouettes of five figures loitering about fifteen metres away. They weren’t tall, and although Ricky couldn’t see their faces, he knew they had to be Thrownaways.

Somewhere in the distance, a church bell struck twelve. Ricky put his hand in his pocket. The pen was there. He curled his fingers around it, then stepped forward, scanning the area ahead, his senses on high alert.

He took ten paces. The figures became clearer and he could make out the Thrownaways, their lean faces glowing yellow in the flickering street lamp. As they saw him approach, they congregated in a little group facing him. They did not look like a welcoming party. Ricky felt the scar on his wrist aching – his souvenir of his last encounter with kids like this. But suddenly Felix’s training began to make sense. He no longer felt like the victim he had been when Felix had first found him.

He stopped walking when he was five metres away from them. He gripped the pen more firmly, and realized that his palm was sweating.

One of the Thrownaways stepped forward. He was thin, with a scruffy mop of hair, a protruding Adam’s apple and narrow, vicious eyes. His face looked like it had seen a few fists.

‘You homeless?’ Ricky said.

‘Who’s asking?’

A pause.

One of the other kids shouted out: ‘What’s the problem, Tommy?’ But Tommy, if that was his name, didn’t reply.

Ricky held out the rucksack.

‘This is for you,’ he said. ‘Something to eat.’

Tommy looked at his friends. ‘We’ve got a do-gooder,’ he said, and his friends laughed unpleasantly.

Ricky remembered his own do-gooders, and he felt his lip curling.

‘What else you got, do-gooder?’ Tommy demanded. ‘Empty out your pockets.’

Ricky threw the rucksack so that it landed halfway between him and the Thrownaways. ‘Take it or leave it,’ he said. He turned, and started walking back through the snow towards the main road.

There were footsteps behind him. He saw a shadow, cast by the flickering yellow street lamp, cross his own. He stopped and turned. Tommy was striding up to him, his fists clenched. ‘I said, empty out your pockets!’

Ricky drew himself up to his full height, still clutching the pen in his pocket. Thanks to Felix’s weeks of training, he felt strangely confident. ‘There are two police officers just round the corner,’ he said. ‘You don’t want to get mixed up with them any more than I do.’

The boy sneered, but Ricky immediately noticed the look of uncertainty in his eyes. ‘Going to go off crying to the police?’ Tommy asked.

‘Not at all. But it’ll be them taking you to A & E if you even think about attacking me. Take the food, share it with your friends. Think of this as your lucky night.’

There was clearly something in Ricky’s voice that made him sound convincing. A flicker of hesitation crossed Tommy’s face.

One of the other kids called out: ‘Hunter’s gonna want a wallet, innit?’

Tommy looked over his shoulder, but he didn’t advance any further. He had clearly decided that Ricky wasn’t easy pickings. ‘You should get out of here, before we change our mind about you,’ he muttered, then turned and walked back to his mates.

Ricky hurried back onto the main road. The police were still there. The main road was still busy, the cars moving slowly through heavy snow. He hailed a cab, and went back home.

Madeleine would have approved
, he told himself.

But he wondered what Felix would say.

If he told him . . .

In his past life, Boxing Day had always been a disappointment. It meant the excitement of Christmas was over. But when the doorbell rang at exactly 9 a.m. on the 26th, Ricky felt strangely relieved. His solitary Christmas was over. After all, there was only so much TV he could watch on his own, especially when it was all filled with images of families and parties. To stave off the boredom on Christmas Day, he’d even spent some time on the treadmill, but then felt sad that he was doing so on what was supposed to be a festive occasion. Still, at least he hadn’t been dragged to that weird church by his foster carers . . . And now he could get back to work, if you wanted to call it that, with Felix.