—he had a good heart, and she believed he could be a
very good friend—but there was an age difference that she could not shake from her mind. She was still all
but innocent of the opposite sex, but she knew enough to realize that Cadge was just a boy. So while he
touched her hand and exuded an im-age of togetherness, she thought of them more as brother and sister.
Jazz did not like facing out into the street. She felt ex-posed. There were eyes upon her, and she
expected an Uncle to emerge from the crowd at any moment and bury a knife in her gut. They'd go for
Cadge too, of course, and drag him into some shop doorway, and the last thing she'd see would be the
Uncle's face pressed up close to hers, the last thing she'd smell would be his garlic breath, and he'd pant in
excitement as her blood pulsed over his hand.
Her murder would be quick and quiet, a brief distur-bance in a street filled with everyone minding
their own business. London was like that. So many people pressed so closely together, and the more people
there were, the more alone she felt. Nobody seemed to pay attention to anyone out here. If the street was
virtually deserted, passersby would nod a brief hello, maybe give a smile, and if there was only her and
someone else, they'd pause for a chat. But in crowds like this, everyone kept to themselves. The more
people there were, the less human they seemed to be.
So she looked in shop windows and studied the reflec-tions of the street behind her. Cadge nattered
on, pointing out things in the window displays —CDs here, clothes there, books and shoes and sexy
lingerie—but Jazz's eyes were al-ways searching beyond these things. Was that a man in a black suit
staring at her back from across the road? She shifted sideways, and no, it was just the shadow thrown by a
slowly closing coffee-shop door. They walked to another shop, and Jazz looked past the display of hats and
handbags at the reflection of a man standing motionless behind her. Cadge made some quip about Hattie
not being here, and Jazz lowered her head and looked at the reflection. Still not moving, still staring across
the road, his immobility in such a bustling street marked him.
Like picking a scab, the urge to turn was impossible to resist. But the man was only a mannequin
placed on the pavement outside a clothes shop. Its arm was raised, finger pointing at her accusingly. In its
blank pink face she saw a hundred expressions she did not like.
Someone nudged into her and passed by without apolo-gizing.
Windows lined the buildings above her, any one of them home to an enemy.
"Cadge, let's get a drink," she said. "Got half an hour yet."
"Sure!" He grabbed her hand and headed for a newsagent's stall, but she held back and nodded
across the street.
"Coffee," she said. "Somewhere inside."
"Oh." He looked grave for a second, then smiled and nodded. As they dodged traffic across the
street, he held her around the waist and leaned in close. "It was like this for me the first few times back up,"
he said.
"Like what?" Jazz asked. They reached the pavement and negotiated the equally busy streams of
human traffic.
Cadge looked up at the ribbon of gray sky between rooftops. "Too exposed."
She felt a rush of affection for Cadge then, and she opened the coffee-shop door and motioned him
in first.
Harry always sent them up with some money. Jazz had a cappuccino and Cadge a milk shake, and
they drank them quickly.
"So what's your story, Cadge?" she asked. "I feel so self-ish. Things are bad for me, but I've never
asked about you or any of the others, and that's bad too."
"Don't feel guilty," he said over the top of his glass, and she sensed a maturity in him then, something
that belied his outward image. He suddenly reminded her of herself at that age. "My story ain't too much
fun to tell either."
Jazz sipped her coffee and glanced around the busy cof-fee shop. Everyone in their own world,
nobody looking at them, and she no longer felt so out of place. She glanced at her watch. "We've got time."
"Well..." He sucked up more milk shake through his straw, then licked his lips. "To be honest, it
sounds like a really bad soap. 'Cept it ain't. It was real lives ruined, and no one to watch but me. See... I
came home from school one day and found my dad and auntie...you know. Doing it." Thought they hadn't
heard me, but as I was creeping out, Dad
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