When Will There Be Good News? Read Free Page A

was completely dead. Something mysterious, like electronics, he supposed. Now it was being nursed in a garage in Walthamstow by a Polish guy called Emil who had access (a nice euphemism) to genuine BMW parts at half the price of an official supplier.
    He checked his watch, a gold Breitling, an expensive present. Quality time. He liked male paraphernalia -cars, knives, gadgets, watches -but he wasn't sure he would have laid out so much money on a watch. 'Don't look a gift horse in the mouth,' she smiled when she gave it to him.
    'Oh, fucking hurry up, would you,' he muttered and banged his head off the steering wheel, but gently in case he attracted the attention ofa passing local. Despite the disguise, he knew there might be a limit to how long you could hang about in a small place like this without someone beginning to ask questions. He sighed and looked at his watch. He'd give it another ten minutes.
    After nine minutes and thirty seconds (he was counting -what else was there to do? Watching the watch.) a vanguard of two boys and two girls ran out of the door of the school. They were carrying football nets and in a well-practised manoeuvre erected them on the green. The green seemed to serve as a school playground. He couldn't imagine what it would be like to be educated in a school like this. His primary school had been an underfunded, overpopulated sinkhole where social Darwinism applied at every turn. Survival of the fastest. And that was the good part of his education. His proper education, where he had actually sat in a classroom and learned something, had been provided courtesy of the army.
    A stream of children, dressed in PE kit, poured out of the school and spread over the green like a delta. Two teachers followed and started dishing out footballs from a basket. He counted the children as they came out, all twenty-seven of them. The little ones came out last.
    Then came what he was waiting for -the playschool kids. They gathered every Wednesday and Friday afternoon in a little extension at the back of the school. Nathan was one of the tiniest, tottering along, holding on to the hand of a much older girl. Nat. Small like a gnat. He was bundled into some kind ofall-in-one snowsuit. He had dark eyes and black curls that belonged incontrovertibly to his mother. A little snub nose. It was safe, Nathan's mother wasn't here, she was visiting her sister who had breast cancer. No one here knew him. Stranger in a strange land. There was no sign of Mr Arty-Farty. The False Dad.
    He got out of the car, stretched his legs, consulted his map. Looked around as if he'd just arrived. He could hear the waterfall. It was out of sight of the village but within hearing of it. Sketched by Turner, according to the guidebook. He meandered across a corner of the green, as if he was going towards one of the many walkers' paths that spidered out of the village. He paused, pretended to consult the map again, ambled nearer to the children.
    The bigger kids were warming up, throwing and kicking the ball to each other. Some of the older ones were practising headers. Nathan was trying to kick a ball to and fro with a girl from the infants' class. He fell over his own feet. Two years and three months old. His face was scrunched up with concentration. Vulnerable. He could have picked him up with one hand, run back to the Discovery, thrown him in the back seat and driven out of there before anyone had time to do anything. How long would it take for the police to respond? For ever, that was how long.
    The ball rolled towards him. He picked it up and grinned at Nathan, said, 'Is this your ball, son?' Nathan nodded shyly and he held out the ball like a lure, drawing the boy towards him. As soon as he was within reach he gave the ball back with one hand and with the other touched the boy's head, pretending to ruille his hair. The boy leaped back as if he had been scalded. The girl from the infants' class grabbed the ball and dragged Nathan away by the