Little Triggers Read Online Free Page B

him just by talking. Unmarried, living in a tower block in Scotswood with her young daughter, she ran a daycare centre for inner-city children and was trying to get a credit union going. She had established herself as a community activist despite disadvantages which would have turned most people into victims. They had gone out together a few times – drinking, the cinema, the odd meal – but it hadn’t really taken off. Larkin was still shell-shocked after Charlotte’s death and Jane was naturally wary of men in general. They had remained friends, however; Larkin was using her for one of his colour supplement features.
    She knew he would be visiting her that afternoon. So why would she call?
    Two and a half rings. Then the phone was picked up with such speed it left the bell echoing.
    “Hello?” a voice said, too quickly.
    “Jane?”
    “Yeah?”
    “Stephen. Larkin.”
    “Oh!” Relief, followed by silence. Larkin waited for her to speak. “You still comin’ over today?”
    “You know I am. What’s up?”
    “Nothing.” There was a pause; Larkin could feel her tension. “Look – can you come a little bit earlier?”
    “Why?”
    “Can you?”
    He told her he had some work to do but could make it by three.
    “Come to the centre. That’s where I’ll be.”
    “OK.”
    “Right — ” It was as if she wanted to say something, something important, but couldn’t find the words.
    “Are you all right, Jane?”
    There was another pause. “Yeah. Look, I’ve got to go. I’ll see you later, right?”
    She put the phone down. And a puzzled Larkin held a dead receiver.
    Larkin felt unseen eyes on him as he drove. He knew he was being watched; his car marked him out as not living in the area. They probably thought he was a DSS snoop. He remembered the torch he kept in the glove compartment: an American police model that could double as a truncheon, it was as effective as a baseball bat and twice as legal. Although he hadn’t had to use it yet, he was definitely prepared to.
    He pulled up beside another car: an anonymous, hermetically-sealed Nineties blob. Parking behind it, he noted it was a virtually brand-new Fiesta with a protective camouflage of inner-city dirt. He killed the Gold’s engine, got out and locked it. Though if someone wanted to break in, all they had to do was slit the roof.
    The daycare centre was a primary-coloured, single-storey, concrete-clad edifice. It had been enthusiastically, if not professionally, painted with a mural featuring huge daisies and smiling children. There was a cheerful optimism about the place that Larkin admired, as if it were refusing to be choked by the surrounding oppressiveness. He went in through the bright red double doors which opened onto a large room where children’s paintings covered the walls. Care-used toys and games littered the floor, and a couple of shelves bearing well-worn storybooks and some over-loved stuffed toy animals completed the look of cheerful chaos.
    He was expecting noise and he got it. Lots of small children were running around, shrieking with delight. They were supposed to be painting but from the looks of it the only thing they were painting was each other.
    Suddenly, one of the children let out a shriek that wasn’t due to pleasure. Larkin moved to where the noise was coming from, found a tiny boy with a clump of another boy’s hair in his hand. The other boy was on the floor, his face red and wet from crying. The first child looked at the clump of hair in his hand almost in disbelief; then he started kicking the prone boy, rage in his eyes.
    Larkin was wondering whether to intervene when a man who Larkin hadn’t noticed before pulled them apart.
    “Daniel! Stop that!”
    The boy looked up at him and dropped the clump of hair, fear creeping into his eyes. The man pointed a finger at him sternly and the boy fell silent.
    “Good,” the man said. “Now apologise.”
    Hate and fear fought it out on the boy’s face. The end result