Mid-October
KEITH ‘TRIGGER’ MAGAW CLAMBERED OUT of the window as the rest of the house slept. Beacon House was a six-bed children’s home at the base of the Lickey Hills, surrounded by gardens, but no fences. It was a good place and very few of its residents ran away, but those that did could do so easily. There was nothing wrong with the food, the rooms or the treatment. Trigger didn’t know why he was running away, again, for the third time since he’d been placed there. And that was a year ago. He was beset with a restlessness that nagged like an itch under his skin. He couldn’t settle or relax because foster homes were never home – the only place he called home was Aunt Maxie’s on Scotland’s Isle of Skye. She’d wanted to adopt him but his mother had always obstructed her, so he certainly wasn’t going back to Glasgow. The last time he’d returned, his smack-addled mother had demanded cash from him before he’d even said hello – one of the many reasons he’d been in care since the age of five. Trigger’s nickname originated from his temper – a hair-trigger ferocity that could be frightening even to most adults. He saved his anger for the bastards who deserved it but there were still a great many bastards willing for a square-go.
The streets were quiet and deserted. He’d lived on the streets before, too many times. He carried a backpack carrying only essentials: two bars of soap, a water bottle, matches and his two favourite books. He also took a notebook and pencil, as well as his trusty flick knife. He wore thick clothing under his parka coat and sturdy brown shoes. He had decided to hole up in the hills for a month or so, just for the adventure of it, before heading to his Aunt Maxie on her tiny farm on the Isle of Skye. He’d saved for the fare – he could do it. He’d left a note on his bed to say that was where he was going – he didn’t want home manager, Sarah, panicking, assuming the murderer had got him. Besides, the subsequent police search would ensure he was found and sent back to another horrible foster home.
Trigger wasn’t scared of anything or anyone and the recent murders didn’t even dent his objective, didn’t even cross his mind. He believed the Old Nonce was long gone, scared off by the gang’s vandalism on his home. Trigger’s immediate worry was to evade capture, but he had all the time in the world to make his mind up. He’d have an adventure like Huckleberry Finn. He was only twelve years old, after all.