‘And, you might as well know, I know.’
‘You know what?’ Fabian turned to face her, holding her eye.
‘That you’re working for them.’ Robyn folded her arms, daring him to deny what she was saying.
Fabian grimaced slightly. ‘What? What are you talking about? Working for them? Robyn, this isn’t the effingGodfather…’
‘Oh, as good as,’ Robyn snapped. ‘Blane came to me this afternoon telling me you’re their newconsigliere…’
‘The kid knows Italian?’ Fabian attempted levity. ‘I’m impressed.’
‘Fabian, Blane Higson hardly knows any English… certainly can’t spell it… apart from broad Yorkshire…’ She broke off, tears starting as she remembered. ‘Fabian, he’sdead.’
‘I’m so sorry.’ He put his arms round her. ‘But his death can’t be put down to this lot he was involved with. Sounds like he was high and out of control on a stolen bike.’
‘Not directly, maybe. But certainly indirectly.’ Robyn stood back from him, staring up into his face. ‘What do they want you to do?’
‘Oh, the usual.’ Fabian shrugged nonchalantly.
‘The usual?’
‘They saw how I helped to get Joel off through the National Referral Mechanism. They now want me to defend a couple of the kids working for them who’ve been arrested like Joel was.’
‘And?’ Robyn felt her pulse race.
‘And, I said no.’
‘Really?’
‘Of course. Told the two blokes I met up with that I was no longer a practising barrister. That I’d simply been doing Joel a favour.’
‘You met up with them?’ Robyn was open mouthed. ‘The men who were in the car park in Leeds? Where?’ She pictured a deserted warehouse under the arches down by the River Calder, a couple of sober-suited men backed by thumbscrew-turning lackeys standing in the shadows, ready to chop off a couple of fingers as warning if Fabian didn’t comply.
‘Had a drink with them in a rather nice bar in Leeds.’
‘What? Are you mad? Stark-staring mad?’
‘I don’t think so. They needed to know I was no longer practising.’
‘Sounds like you’ve been practising being an idiot, Fabian.’
‘Believe me, Robyn, I know what I’m doing. Now, you look all in. Come on, I’m going to run you a bath and tuck you up in bed. You’ve had a terrible shock with Blane.’
Witheverythingthat’s happened today, Robyn thought, giving Fabian a protracted look regarding Blane’s boast that Fabian was now ‘working for us’, before heading, deep in thought, for the stairs.
* * *
Bunches of spring flowers, handwritten – some badly spelt – notes torn from exercise books and a couple of teddies were already in place outside the railings of St Mede’s when Robyn arrived at the school next morning. The whole area where Blane had died was cordoned off, a couple of young PCs and community officers holding the fort, answering questions and showing those who’d heard of the terrible accident and come with tributes where these could be laid.
Blane had, apparently, in death, achieved the fame he’d never quite achieved during his short fourteen years of life.
An atmosphere of confusion and consternation mixed with a frisson of shocked and feverish excitement covered the whole school like a blanket, huddles of kids chattering and greeting newcomers with hugs and kisses and tears, eager to be the bearers of such impelling and intoxicating news to those not already in the know. Robyn, having spent a turbulent night tossing and turning next to Fabian, felt exhausted and tetchy, unwilling, or at least unprepared, to turn Blane into the hero or saint some of the kids were now making him out to be. Most of the pupils, even down to the Year 7 kids, knew who Blane Higson was. Most hadn’t liked the scruffy, scrawny kid, had looked down on him, despising him for what he stood for. Now, suddenly, he was a gang member, put up on the cross of a stolen motorcycle for his sins, a martyr to the cause. The thought only added to Robyn’s feelings of sadness and despair as she made her way to the staff room.
‘Full assembly straight away,’ Mason barked, putting his head round the staff room door where, for once, there was an atmosphere of shocked bewilderment rather than the feverish planning, photocopying, last-minute cups of coffee and toast consumption before the staff headed once more into the fray. Robyn made for the kettle but was stopped in her tracks by John Vaughn, Head of maths, addressing her loud enough for other members of staff to hear.
‘Your sister, I believe?’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Robyn frowned.
