The heat from inside the café fogged up the windows facing the street, but the babble of voices and the hiss of a steam kettle from within sounded welcoming.
Baz pushed through the door, with Sara trailing behind him.
It was a small space, long and narrow like a train compartment, with booths running down each side. The restaurant was half-full and, as they entered, Baz looked around for a space. They sank into a pleather bench in the back.
They made an unlikely couple. Baz’s frame filled the entire seat while Sara had to extend her feet in order for her toes to touch the floor.
Baz stared at her truculently.
‘So?’
Before Sara could respond, a waitress materialized by their side.
‘What do you want?’
‘Full English,’ said Baz, looking at Sara pointedly. This one was on her. ‘And a cup of tea.’
‘And what about you, love?’ asked the waitress, looking at Sara.
‘Nothing,’ said Sara, shaking her head.
The waitress left.
‘My name is Sara Eden,’ she began.
The story she told was not dissimilar to the stories Baz heard from other young runaways. Men were pursuing her. Bad men. They wanted her for sinister, but unnamed, purposes. She had survived on the streets for a few weeks, but they were closing in. On her heels now. Could grab her at any time.
The story always ended the same way. With an appeal. A twenty-pound note would keep the predators at bay. Eyes would grow Disney-large, faces would become slack with innocence, chins would tilt minutely up. It was never clear how a sum of money that small would adequately defend a child from the massed forces of darkness pursuing it. But perhaps that was the point. They were just singing for their supper.
Baz half-listened, Sara’s words receding into the background, like an overplayed song on the radio that Baz could finish from memory.
He kept one eye on the kitchen door, waiting for his breakfast to arrive. Whatever curiosity he had regarding the pickpocketing skills of this child was wearing off. He held up his hand to attract the attention of the waitress. He was becoming increasingly uncomfortable with how strange a couple they made as well, and the last thing Baz wanted was attention.
‘… anyway, this is to start,’ finished Sara, laying out five crisp twenty-pound notes on to the table. ‘I’ll give you another hundred if you agree.’
Baz’s raised hand slowly dropped down to the table, a drowning man disappearing below the water.
She said she had a way to get cash. Quickly. In return she wanted something from him.
A trade.
She cut herself off when the waitress walked out of the kitchen with a steaming plate. The waitress slid it in front of Baz and laid a glass of water in front of Sara.
Baz snatched up his knife and fork and assaulted his plate with vigour. It had been almost twenty-four hours since he had last eaten, and his hunger had mutated into something else, overriding his conscious motor functions and shovelling food in his mouth faster than he could chew it.
When he had finished, he pulled out a bottle from his jacket and took a deep chug.
The alcohol burned as it went down, leaving a residue of warmth as if a pilot light had been lit inside him. Feeling fortified, his curiosity returned.
‘All stolen money?’
‘I didn’t steal it,’ said Sara, slowly, with authority. Eyes locked on his. A teacher correcting a pupil.
Baz was considering whether to believe her when the front door of the café opened, a shiver of glass and wood, accompanied by the buzz of the doorbell signalling a new customer. Baz turned around casually to see two men in suits enter and look around for a place to sit.
‘So where did you get it?’ asked Baz, turning back to Sara.
But now it was her turn to be distracted. She was staring at the men intently, watching their movements. In the time it took for Baz to turn around, she had slid to the end of the bench, ready to propel herself out.
Baz’s eyes flicked to the table and noticed something else.
Both knives on the table were now missing.
‘Steady …’ cautioned Baz, looking between her and the two arrivals. His new friend was becoming more interesting by the second. ‘No need for you to do anything. That’s where I come in, right?’ He met her eye, nodding to calm her down, his words encouraging.
‘It’s not them I’m worried about. It’s the ones that could be waiting outside,’ said Sara, moving back along the seat to face him again.
Both her hands remained under the table.
‘You used a knife before?’ said Baz, looking at her with bemusement.
The dead-eyed look he received in return made his smile falter.
‘OK, I’m listening. What do you want?’ asked Baz.
The girl’s request was a simple one. It required the threat of violence more than violence, and that was no problem for him. After consideration, he agreed, with one condition.
‘I want the next hundred first,’ he said.