on foam chairs. Some had newspapers or forms mounted on clipboards, but most stared into space.
‘Can I help you?’ the overweight receptionist asked politely, as James glanced around and saw no sign of Junior Moore.
‘My name’s James Beckett,’ he said breathlessly. ‘I got out of young offenders last week and they said I’ve got to register here within seven days.’
‘OK,’ the woman nodded, as she tapped something into her computer. ‘Is that Beckett with one T or two?’
‘Two,’ James said, as he wiped the sweat off his forehead on to the sleeve of his jacket.
‘I’m not getting anything under that name. Which institution were you released from?’
‘Peterwalk, near Glasgow,’ James said.
This detail of James’ background story had been devised so that he’d be unlikely to bump into anyone he was supposed to have been locked up with.
‘Scottish institutions aren’t on our computer,’ the receptionist explained as she reached around and grabbed an eight-page form and a clipboard. ‘You’ll need to fill out one of these. If you have difficulty reading and writing, I’ll get one of the support staff to help out.’
James stepped over outstretched legs until he reached an empty chair on the far side of the room. He was sweating because it was so hot and he unzipped his jacket as he sat down.
His best chance of bumping into Junior and making a connection would have been in the waiting room before his appointment, but he’d missed that opportunity by oversleeping and now he’d have to scramble after Junior as he left. If Junior was in a rush, he might leave before they got a proper chance to talk and the mission would be down the toilet – or at least severely delayed – before it had even started.
James decided to fill the form in quickly, so that he could hand it in and leave with Junior if the opportunity arose.
‘Junior Moore,’ a man shouted firmly.
James looked up at a skinny man in a brown suit who had to be Junior’s parole officer. The officer headed over towards the receptionist and after a brief conversation she put an announcement over the tannoy.
‘If Junior Moore is still in the building, please report to office D immediately. That’s Junior Moore, office D immediately.’
After a few seconds, the parole officer shook his head and began walking away from the desk, but James was startled by a crashing noise just a few metres behind him. He looked up to see Junior standing in the doorway, with his head buried inside the furry hood of a black parka.
‘Mr Ormondroyd,’ Junior shouted, as he pointed into the toilet and began stepping between the chairs and legs. ‘Sorry, mate. I was sitting on the bog and I nodded off.’
This caused a great deal of mirth amongst the other offenders, but the parole officer looked furiously at his watch. ‘I can have you back inside like that, Moore,’ the parole officer said, as he snapped his fingers. ‘In my office now.’
But as Junior stumbled across the room, he recognised James’ face. ‘James Beckett,’ Junior giggled, spreading his arms out wide. ‘James bloody Beckett!’
James looked up and gave Junior a smile. ‘I should have known that there couldn’t be two people of that name,’ he said, ‘but I thought they sent you off to some nobby boarding school. What the hell are you doing here?’
‘It’s a parole office,’ Junior said. ‘I came here to buy postage stamps, obviously.’
‘Same here.’
‘This is so cool,’ Junior grinned, but then he caught the angry stare from his parole officer. ‘But … I’ve got this appointment,’ he continued edgily. ‘We’ve got to catch up. Can you wait around?’
‘Sure,’ James said, trying not to sound relieved. ‘I’ve only got to fill in this form, but I can stick around till you’re out of your meeting.’
23. SMOKE
‘You got much going on?’ Junior asked when he came out. ‘There’s nobody around, so you can come over mine and catch up if you like.’
‘Whatever,’ James nodded, zipping up his coat as they headed out of the parole office into a bitterly cold wind. ‘How’d it go in there?’
Junior shrugged. ‘You know, same as always: straighten up, fly right, tuck in your shirt, go to school, be home by eight, don’t smoke, don’t drink, don’t do drugs and if you do get caught little boy we’re locking you up again. How’s about you?’
‘I got busted up in Scotland,’ James lied. ‘I served my time and I don’t have to see the parole officer any more, but I