Page 25 of Savage Protector

“I’ll take the plate, then,” he announces, already cradling the shortbread in his arms. “Shame to waste it.”

I admit defeat on that front and herd the pair of them out of the kitchen. Frankie leads the way to the stairs.

His ‘office’ is on the first floor. Strictly speaking, the IT lab was set up by Casey Savage, now Casey O’Neill, Ethan and Aaron’s sister. She’s an internationally famous IT geek and hacker extraordinaire. Since she married one of Ethan’s main allies, Jed O’Neill, who heads up the Irish Mob, she’s lived mainly in New York and Dublin. She likes to maintain her presence here, though, so hasn’t shipped her state-of-the art equipment out.

Frankie is a sort of apprentice who she’s helping to train up. He’s about the same age as Leila, and at Ethan’s insistence is studying computer sciences at university, only returning to Caraksay between semesters. It’s lucky for Leila that he was here for the summer. She’d be dead otherwise.

We troop into his den on the first floor to be met by whirring and flashing lights. At least half a dozen screens glare at us, a baffling series of numbers, characters, and images flashing across them.

He drops into a swivel chair and regards us through heavy-rimmed spectacles, the plate of shortcake precariously balanced on top of a pile of computer magazines.

“Right, what is it you want, then?”

I briefly explain Leila’s predicament. “Is it possible to log back in to an account, even if it’s been closed?”

“Oh, yes. Easily. I just need the password and the name on the account.”

Leila rattles off the details, and we both watch as Frankie keys them in and does some other techy wizardry to bring up the lost account. It’s the work of moments, then Leila’s inbox miraculously materialises on the screen.

Frankie gestures Leila to come forward. “You’ve got mail.”

She scans the list eagerly, then, “It’s there. Look. A message from Edinburgh, and one from St Andrews, too. Oh, and there’s Glasgow. They’ve all made me offers.”

“Well done.” I lean in to view the emails. “Medical school, no less. So, you’re going to be a doctor.”

“I got four A’s,” she gasps. “Four A’s. Shit.”

“I take it that’s good?”

She can only nod. “I worked hard, but I never expected that.”

“You deserve it. So, you have the pick of all three?”

“It looks like it.”

“Which do you prefer?” I find myself hoping it’s not St Andrews. It’s too far away for my liking.

Her face falls. “It doesn’t matter. I won’t be going. I can’t afford it.”

“What about a grant? Or a student loan?” I’ve heard of those; isn’t this how most students fund themselves?

“I applied for a grant for the fees, and I got that, but I’d have nowhere to live and nothing to live on.”

“All the more reason to reclaim your college fund.” And I have an idea about accommodation, too, if she opts for Glasgow or Edinburgh.

She shakes her head. “It wouldn’t matter. As soon as I register, they’d know. My uncle would know I’m alive, and he’d be back for me. He’d have to, wouldn’t he? To stop me talking about what they did.”

She’s right, but I won’t be letting Uncle Abdul throw his weight around anymore. If she can be persuaded not to rely on the police locking him up, I have another idea. He won’t be bothering her again; I intend to make sure of it.

“Leave Uncle Abdul to me. You need to get on with deciding which university is for you and accept their kind offer.”

“But—”

I lay my fingers across her lips. “Enough. Trust me. Reply to those emails.”

6

Leila

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