never bothered with their names. To her they were just the Uncles, the name her mother had
been using ever since Jazz could remember. They came to visit regularly, sometimes in pairs or threes,
sometimes on their own. They would ask her mother how things were, whether she needed anything or if
she'd "had any thoughts." They never ac-cepted a drink or the offer of food, but they always left behind an
envelope containing a sheaf of used ten- and twenty-pound notes.
They told Jazz that she never had to worry about any-thing, which only worried her more. When they
left, her mother would slide the envelope into a drawer as though it was dirty.
But what was this one doing in her bedroom? Whatever his purpose, Jazz didn't like it. They had
never, ever come into her room when she was at home, and her mother as-sured her that they did not
snoop around when she was out. They were perfect gentlemen. Like gangsters, Jazz had said once, and
we're their molls. Her mother had smiled but did not respond.
The Uncle turned his head, scanning the gardens and alleyway.
He'll see me. If the robin calls again and he looks down to lo-cate it, he'll see me pressed here
against Mr. Barker's back door.
The bird hopped along the head of the wall, pausing to peck at an insect or two. Jazz worked
at the lock without looking, waiting for the feel of the tumblers snicking into place. One... two... three... two
to go, and the last two were always the hardest.
The Uncle moved to withdraw back into the room, and Jazz let go of her breath in a sigh of relief.
The robin chirped, singing along with the chaotic London buzz of traffic and shouts.
The Uncle leaned from the window again just as Jazz felt the lock disengage. She turned the handle
and pushed her way in behind the opening door, never looking away from the shadow of the man at her
bedroom window.
He didn't see me, she thought. She left the door open; he'd be more likely to see the movement of it
closing than to notice it was open.
The robin fluttered away.
Jazz did not wait to question what was happening, or why. She hurried through Mr. Barker's house,
careful not to knock into any furniture, cautious as she opened or closed doors. She didn't want to make the
slightest sound.
In his living room, she moved to the front window. The wooden Venetian blinds were closed, but,
pressing her face to the wall, she could see past their edge. Out in the street, she saw just what she had
feared.
Two large black cars were parked outside her house. Beamers.
Jazz's heart was thumping, her skin tingling. Something's happened. Rarely had more than three
Uncles visited at once; and now there were two cars here, parked prominently in the street with windows
still open and engines running, as if daring anyone to approach. They're a law unto themselves, her mother
sometimes said.
Her mum had rarely said anything outright against the Uncles, but she never needed to. Her unease
was there on her face for her daughter to see. But Jazz could not just sit here and spy on her own house,
wondering what had gone wrong.
She and her mum had talked many times about fleeing the house if trouble ever came to the door.
They'd made plans, created a virtual map in their minds, and once or twice they'd pursued the escape route,
just to make sure it could really work.
All Jazz had to do now was reverse it.
****
She found Mr. Barker's attic hatch in one of his back bed-rooms. This was a cold, sterile room with
white walls, bare timber floors, and only an old rattan chair as furniture. She lifted the chair instead of
dragging it, positioning it beneath the hatch, then stood carefully on its arms and pushed the hatch open. It
tipped to the side and thumped onto the tim-ber joists.
Jazz cringed and held her breath. It had been a soft im-pact, muffled in the attic. Unlikely it would
travel through to her house; these places were solid.
Got to be more careful than that.
Fingers gripping the edge of the square hole in the ceil-ing, she pushed off the chair, trying to get her
elbows over the lip of the hatch. The chair rocked, tipping onto two legs and then back again with another
soft thud. She let her torso and legs dangle there for a while, preparing to haul herself up and in. Jazz was
fitter than most girls her age —others were more interested in boys, drinking, and sex than in keeping
themselves fit and healthy —but she also knew that she
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