Page 182 of The Black Trilogy

But I never found my sanctuary. Every guardian was in the game either for money or because they had certain predilections frowned upon by society. Sometimes both, if I got particularly unlucky. Can you imagine a situation where a person had an unhealthy interest in young girls, and not only did the state deliver the object of their fantasies to their door, but paid the freak to “take care” of them?

No?

Think that never happened?

Well, let me tell you, it did.

By the time they ran out of foster parents for me, I’d been hit, burned, locked up, starved, and groped. The only way to escape from one particularly sadistic couple was by burning the house down. I’d only intended to damage my bedroom so I couldn’t stay in it anymore, but who knew hairspray and perfume would go up with quite such a bang?

Next up was the children’s home. When a so-called care-worker stole from me, for the second time, what wasn’t his to take, I decided I’d had enough.

I quit.

I left the “care” system, and I stopped going to school as well so they couldn’t find me there and take me back.

After all, at twelve years old I was practically a grown-up, right?

Two years on the streets hardened me. The great outdoors may have been tough, but when I spotted the freaks, it was easy enough to avoid them. And over those months, I gained a whole new set of life skills, ones that didn’t appear on the school curriculum.

I still remembered the thrill when I’d hot-wired my first car, my GTA mentor by my side.

“You got the lock barrel out?”

“Yep, I got it, Vinnie.”

“Now, just twist the wires together.”

The engine started with a roar, and a delicious shiver ran through me. I’d never driven a vintage Porsche before. I bet not many thirteen-year-olds had.

My shoplifting talents improved to the extent that I rarely had to do a runner from the security guards, and I perfected the art of the hustle. I’d act my little heart out for a cut of whatever the person running the scam managed to make. Accents, airs, graces, I could put on them all. In truth, I wasn’t proud of the way I lived, but once I’d been turned down a one-way street, I had little choice but to keep walking.

I’d never been afraid to get physical, even before the mugging, but a lack of patience meant picking locks frustrated me. It took months to get the hang of it, but once learned, I never forgot. Even now, I still had the habit of carrying a couple of bobby pins for that very purpose.

So, what happened? What made me go straight at the grand old age of fourteen?

Well, my lifestyle came to a dead end one winter morning when I woke wrapped in a filthy blanket on the floor of an abandoned factory. My back ached as I rolled over and stretched, my fingertips touching the dude lying behind me.

“Sunny, you got any food?” I asked.

Sunny was six or seven years older than me, and his story mirrored mine, except he’d taken to self-medicating with whatever drugs he could beg, borrow, or steal so he wouldn’t have to face his own mind anymore.

He didn’t answer.

I scrambled to my knees, catching my palm on a nail sticking up from the floor. I still had that scar, barely noticeable, as a reminder of my previous life.

My breath puffed white in the chilly air as I wrapped a T-shirt around my hand to stop the bleeding, then I took a better look at Sunny.

“No,” I whispered, unable to think of more words.

Milky white eyes stared back at me, unseeing, and I fell backwards, bumping my head on a pillar as I struggled to my feet. My wild run from the first of many dead bodies I’d encounter in my life ended outside JJ’s, as I sucked in ragged breaths and tried to block Sunny’s sagging jaw from my mind.

Cleaner wanted, the sign in the window read. Hours by agreement, enquire within.

My survival instinct kicked in, and after a quick trip to the nearest public toilet to make myself presentable, I went back, said I was sixteen, and landed the job. Jimmy didn’t mind me coming in early to take a shower before my shift, but I started creeping in even earlier to sleep for the night.

Which I thought was a good plan until Jimmy came back unexpectedly one evening and found me sneaking into the storeroom.

“What on earth are you doing here?”

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