It was a sharp, clear morning. The sun had long since risen and coloured the sky pink on the horizon. It was unseasonally chilly; the grass was damp with condensation and a light mist was just lifting.
Debbie Wicks had almost finished her newspaper round. She was cycling away from the close-built streets of terraced houses inhabited by the majority of her customers and was about to enter the scrubby grounds of Brooks’ paint factory. This was her last call and it always made her uneasy. The factory was invariably deserted at this hour: the first employees didn’t start arriving until seven forty-five, at least thirty minutes after Debbie had shoved the Financial Times and The Sun through the letterbox. The building was ugly, squat and flat-roofed, with mean little iron-framed windows. Management didn’t see fit to leave some lights on at night, as the local copper had advised after the several occasions when kids had broken in for a spot of petty thieving. The porch was sometimes dimly lit by a single naked bulb, but the latest incumbent had ceased functioning at Christmas.
Debbie pedalled past the cast-iron gates, which had been left open for so long they were immobilised by creeping tendrils of convolvulus and thorny blackberry runners, taking care to avoid the potholes in the badly-maintained factory road. She was fifteen, the eldest of three children. The Wicks family led a ramshackle sort of existence: her father was unskilled and worked at what jobs he could get when he felt like it: recently these had included bricklayer’s mate, doing the heavy work for a local gardening firm and ‘prepping’ for a painter and decorator. The jobs never lasted very long; few ran their course, cut short by Derek Wicks’ poor time-keeping or blatant absenteeism. Debbie’s mother suffered from permanent depression; she just about managed the basics of housekeeping. It was left to Debbie to do the shopping, the ironing and most of the cooking and to ensure her brother and sister left for school each day looking more or less presentable. She needed the money from the paper round to buy clothes for herself, though keeping it for that purpose could be difficult: it wasn’t unknown for her father to ‘borrow’ her earnings with the promise that he’d pay them back ‘when his ship came in’. Debbie was ambitious and determined to make the most of her opportunities. She was bright at school, although finding the time to get her homework done was a constant struggle. She knew she had no hope of being allowed to stay at school after she was sixteen; she’d be expected to work to contribute to the family income. She had plans to apprentice herself to a hairdresser who’d encouraged her and study part-time for her A levels as well as her hairdressing qualification. Eventually she’d find a way of going to university. Meanwhile, she was desperate to move out of her parents’ house; compared to her present home, a flat-share with other girls would spell sheer luxury. She was thinking about this as she dismounted from her bike and fished around in her canvas bag for the last two remaining newspapers.
Suddenly there was someone at her elbow. Her heart leapt with fright. She put her hand to her throat, felt the blood pumping there.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you jump.’ It was a soft voice, warm and lazy. ‘It’s a bit spooky here, isn’t it? I wonder if you can help me. I’ve just bought a kitten and she’s run away from me. I followed her here. She went round the side of that building and now I’ve lost her. I think she must be in those bushes over there. I’m late for work as it is. Will you come and help look for her?’
The first worker to arrive at Brooks’ each morning was invariably Moira the cook. Tea had to be ready and waiting for the early shift. When she’d made it, she liked to get well on with the bacon sandwiches and scones for the mid-morning break. If her bus was on time, she could also manage to squeeze in a quick fag before anyone else arrived.
Moira was a key-holder. She was rummaging in her bag for the keys as she walked up the factory road, not looking where she was going. She’d almost reached the entrance when she stumbled on something and landed heavily on one knee. Slowly she got back on her feet and inspected the knee, which was already bleeding from a nasty cut. She saw that she’d tripped on the red bicycle lying in the porch, sending its rear wheel spinning.
‘Which stupid fucker left that there?’ she said aloud, trying to sound as belligerent as possible to cover her fear: she didn’t recognise the bike and inside the porch it was very dark. She had a very cursory look round, but could see no one. She inserted the key, let herself in as quickly as she could and shut the door behind her, bolting it from the inside. When the first workers turned up, they’d have to bray on it if they wanted her to let them in.