Damaged Goods. Helen Black

she was about twenty-five.

      When he could put it off no longer, Max flicked the roach into the gutter and made his way inside.

      It was a game. Barrows always waited until he was sure Max had seen what was playing before he turned off the video.

      Max knew his discomfort amused Barrows. He pretended not to see the young girl on the screen, her tiara glittering, her vagina exposed, but his flinch gave him away.

      He handed two ‘audition tapes’ to Barrows, together with a handful of photographs. If Barrows liked one of the girls he would instruct Max to set the wheels in motion for a film session, and Barrows would pay handsomely.

      The money was everything to Max, the only way out of this shit-hole of a life. For as long as he could remember he’d been trying to save up enough to leave the estate, to put distance between himself and the filth he saw all around him. Thieving, dealing, pimping, he’d done the lot, still did if an opportunity came his way. But this stuff, the kids and Barrows, made good money, more than the rest put together. It was his ticket to freedom. Of course, he still squirmed when Barrows played the tapes and ran his fingers over the Polaroids, and he still felt relief for those girls Barrows rejected. But business was business.

      ‘I wasn’t sure I should come. Maybe we should both be keeping our heads down,’ said Max.

      Barrows was dismissive. ‘The woman’s dead. Problem solved.’

      He discarded the first tape within seconds, but the second retained his attention. His top lip trembled in appreciation of the girl larking about on a swing, nervously pulling at her silver boob tube.

      Max wanted to smash every bone in Barrows’ body, but contented himself with smashing the man’s arrogance.

      ‘Grace may be dead, but the daughter ain’t.’

      Satisfied with Barrows’ reaction, he left.

      Max sat in his car. He’d enjoyed the look on that sicko’s face. He knew full well that Kelsey would never grass, but Barrows didn’t. The switch of power felt good, and yet it was not enough to expel the inevitable dread he felt as he anticipated the introduction of another child into Barrows’ world.

      As a child himself, Max had known he was dirty and unworthy of anyone’s love. And as the years wore on, the layers of filth increased, until they were all that held him together.

      He placed a small rock of crack cocaine into a pipe, put the flame of his lighter to it and inhaled as deeply as he could. The smoke rushed through him, minty cool yet white hot. It cleansed him from the inside out and peeled away the layers to reveal the man beneath. A pure man. A fearless man. A man without blood on his hands.

      He bared his teeth at the world around him and laughed out loud. ‘You can’t touch me.’

      All too soon the effects lessened and the dirt began to seep back into him until his pores were clogged and the layers had re-established themselves. He bit down hard on his bottom lip to recover some feeling, and pulled out his mobile phone to send a text to the girl in the video. After all, she was no angel, she knew the score, so no harm done.

      Anyway, this was his last one. Barrows didn’t know it yet but he was going to pay double for the girl in the boob tube, and Max would have enough money to get the hell out of here.

      Lilly laughed to herself when she arrived outside The Bushes. The scene was a classic. Kids milled in and out of the unit, beside themselves with excitement. Others leaned out of their bedroom windows and shouted to those below.

      Surprisingly, Miriam stood apart from the throng. Perhaps she had decided to let the furore run its course. A risky tactic given how easily and regularly things got out of hand. The presence of Jack McNally’s squad car confirmed Lilly’s suspicions that something had really kicked off.

      ‘Trouble in paradise?’ she asked Miriam.

      Miriam didn’t smile. ‘Kelsey’s mum is dead.’

      ‘Shit.’

      ‘You need to talk to Jack.’

      ‘Has he told you what happened?’ asked Lilly.

      ‘Not much, just that the police want to speak to Kelsey.’

      Miriam placed her hand in the small of Lilly’s back and steered her towards the building. ‘You need to get moving.’

      Lilly eyed her friend. Where was the fire? ‘I’m not sure what I can do except hold the poor kid’s hand.’

      ‘Bugger that. She needs a solicitor and preferably one with her head screwed on.’

      Miriam’s tone worried Lilly. The beloved and almost soporific calm had vanished, and in its place was something Lilly didn’t recognise, at least not in Miriam.

      ‘Is Kelsey all right?’ Lilly asked.

      ‘Wake up, girl, they’re saying she did it. The police think Kelsey murdered her mum.’

      * * *

      Lilly was always pleased to see Jack. Among the myriad professionals she worked with in child protection he could be relied upon to let common sense prevail and, like her, see the funny side of things.

      They’d met on Christmas Eve, five or maybe six years ago, when Jack nicked one of her clients for stealing three tins of Roses from Woolies. The kid had denied it even when Jack played the CCTV footage showing the tiny figure tottering out of the door, his mountain of chocolate swaying precariously, his Santa hat askew.

      As Lilly began to fear ever leaving the station, Jack had sent the kid packing with a telling off and a fiver.

      Since then their paths had crossed so often they felt like old friends.

      It didn’t hurt that he looked so good either. Tall and thin with the dress sense of Boris Johnson wasn’t every woman’s dream, but Jack’s thick dark hair, perfect skin and soulful eyes did it for Lilly. A mild flirtation with a handsome man eased the endless hours waiting in courtrooms. Harmless, yet highly effective.

      He greeted her warmly, but they both understood that the gravity of the situation made their usual banter inappropriate.

      ‘What’s the story, Jack?’ she asked.

      Jack slouched in the door frame, his battered leather jacket thrown over his left shoulder, the collar hooked under his thumb. ‘We need a word with Kelsey.’

      Lilly smiled. If anyone could play things down it was Jack. The Irish melody of his voice lent itself to a light mood.

      ‘No can do. She swallowed a bottle of bleach and her mouth is burnt to shit, she won’t be able to speak for a few weeks.’

      ‘She can write her answers,’ he reasoned.

      ‘Is that any way to conduct an interview with a traumatised fourteen-year-old kid?’ she asked.

      Jack sighed. He’d obviously anticipated this line of attack. ‘Not my call, Lilly.’

      When he said her name it sounded like a song and she had to fight the urge to plant a kiss squarely on his lips.

      ‘Don’t talk rubbish. You’ve got enough clout at the nick to stop some smart arse in CID from hounding children,’ she said.

      ‘This is a murder investigation, Lilly, no one’s interested in my opinion,’ he replied.

      It was Lilly’s turn to sigh, and Jack seemed to take this as confirmation that she knew it was futile to argue.

      ‘This whole thing will be less painful if you cooperate,’ he said, his eyes shining not with triumph but with relief at Lilly’s apparent acquiescence.

      She pushed past him and went inside. ‘Bullshit.’

      Lilly opened the bedroom door. Kelsey was sitting in exactly the same position Lilly had left her almost twenty-four hours earlier. It was if