principal sat with half a dozen teachers,
patiently waiting for the dress rehearsal to begin. Twenty or thirty parents had come as well, along with a
handful of kids who were the younger siblings of members of the cast.
Jazz felt a moment of crashing disappointment when she did not see her mum. Then her gaze
flickered to the back of the auditorium and the figure standing just inside the doors, and her smile returned.
She hurried up the central aisle and presented herself to her mother, spinning once to show off her
dress and then curtsying like a lady.
"What do you think?"
Her mother smiled nervously. "You look lovely, Jazz. I could do without all that makeup —"
"It's stage makeup, Mum. You've got to wear it or the audience won't be able to see the expression
on your face."
"Well, you do look lovely. Hardly a girl at all anymore. A young lady."
Jazz basked a moment in the compliment, but then she saw that her mother's attention had wandered,
gaze darting around to take in the auditorium, the doors at either side of the stage, and the nearer corners of
the room.
"What is it?" Jazz asked, seeing her mother's brows knit.
Her mum nodded toward the stage. "And you'll be up there, will you? The entire time?"
"Hardly," Jazz replied. "My part's not very big. It's not as if I'm playing Eliza."
"Yes, but when you are on, you won't be out in the audi-ence at all?"
"Of course not."
"That'll have to do, I suppose. Can't be too careful, sweetheart."
Jazz stared. Her mother had always been paranoid, and she suspected it had to do with the
suddenness of her father's death. Jazz tried to assuage her fears whenever possible, but sometimes she
couldn't bite her tongue.
"Honestly, Mum. What's going to happen? It isn't as if someone in the audience is going to try to hurt
or rob me in the middle of the show."
Her mother's thin smile seemed to pain her. She gave a shake of her head. "No, of course not, love.
Still, you can never be too careful. Never know what's out there looking to do us harm, do we? Just look
after yourself."
But the following evening, and at all three performances that weekend, whenever Jazz spotted her in
the audience, her mum was standing at the rear of the auditorium, not watching the show but instead
studying the audience and the shadowy corners of the room, always on guard.
But that was her mother. Always on guard. She never seemed to know precisely what or who might
pose a threat, so she mistrusted everything and everyone.
Jazz never participated in another play after that. She could find no joy in it.
Chapter Five
a pocket or two
Holborn station stood at the juncture of High Holborn Street and Kingsway, the foot traffic a mixture
of hurried Londoners, business travelers, and enough casual tourists to warrant a map vendor on the curb
outside the station's en-trance. The facade of the building looked more like an old theater marquee than a
Tube station, but the red circle and blue band that marked the Underground gave it away.
On a pleasantly warm day —a workday, though she'd lost track of which one—Jazz stood near the
magazine stand across the street from the station and pretended to talk into a disposable mobile. The phone
had been fetched from the garbage in Tottenham Court Road station after having been discarded there and
made a useful prop. Jazz had never seri-ously entertained thoughts of becoming an actress, but her few
excursions onto the stage had come effortlessly. She'd been born to pretend.
"Can you believe it, Sally?" she asked into the inert mo-bile. "And he sent flowers the next day. He's
got no shame. I've half a mind to —"
She felt a tug behind her, on the hem of her skirt. Then Cadge whipped the back of her skirt up high,
revealing her lavender thong and far more of her than she would have liked. A breeze fluttered the skirt,
and then she forced it down, covering herself again and dropping the phone in the process. The mobile
cracked when it struck the pavement. She spun on him.
"You cheeky little bugger!"
Cadge laughed merrily, his cheeks flushed with excite-ment and embarrassment. Though older, he
looked no more than twelve.
"Nice arse, love. Let's have a look at the rest!" he cried. A man at the newsstand shot him an angry
glare. He'd just bought a magazine and now stuffed his wallet back into the inside pocket of his suit coat.
"Here, now!" the man said. "There's no call for that."
"Bloody right," Jazz snarled, and she started toward Cadge.
"Oh, tough bird, are we?" Cadge said. "Come on, give us