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  I knew it was no good conjecturing on what might have happened – the only definitive way to find out was to just get there. I shifted gear as I weaved through the traffic, my progress hampered by drivers either hogging the road or not paying attention: “Not today and not on a call like this. GET OUT OF MY WAY! MOVE!”

  Dominion Road is one of the main arteries through the town. It is over a mile long and at this time of the morning it would be jammed with traffic. As I put my foot down, Comms announced that traffic cars, fire and paramedics were also en route. We now also had a precise location: the junction with Loganberry Way. I was less than a minute away now. Drawing nearer, I could see that traffic was at a standstill on the approach into the town. I drove the last thirty yards on the opposite side of the carriageway before reaching the scene. Andy got there seconds before me and positioned his car to block the road. In the distance, I could see Geezer next to two vehicles that had collided; he was already on the airwaves giving an initial on-the-hoof update as he raced from car to car.

  My main priority was to find the children. I got out of my vehicle and ran to the nearest car to ask if they had seen the kids. They had – they had swerved to avoid a toddler who had run out in front of them, causing them to plough into a road sign, and had then looked up just in time to see another vehicle narrowly miss another child. They hadn’t witnessed anything else, but had heard the commotion; the squeal of brakes and the blaring of horns further down the road. As for the children, they had no idea where they had come from or where they had gone.

  I scanned the area but couldn’t see them anywhere. A sickening thought then dawned on me. With my heart racing, I quickly dropped to my knees to check under the vehicle to see if anyone had been caught under the chassis. Mercifully, there was nothing.

  As Geezer shouted over to me that he couldn’t see the children either, I noticed a young woman desperately waving at me from a house on the other side of the road. I ran over and she quickly ushered me inside. In the lounge, sitting on the sofa watching television, were two toddlers.

  “Are these your children?” I queried. “The ones that have been in the road?”

  “Well, yes, and no,” she replied.

  “Which is it?” I asked tersely. I was in no mood for semantics. It appeared that the collisions were all down to drivers swerving to avoid the kids. Moreover, who would put their children in danger like that?

  “These are the kids that were on the road, but they aren’t mine. They belong next door.”

  I got on the radio and informed Comms that the children had been located and were safe, before asking the woman to give me her version of events. It turned out that I had been curt with the wrong person: the woman stood before me, dressed in a smart business suit, was actually the Good Samaritan in all of this. She had been getting ready for work when she had heard the horns and furore outside, and had looked out of the bedroom window to see her neighbours’ children running amok in the road. She had dropped everything and raced outside, managing to gather them together before taking them into her house for safety. She had already tried to contact their parents but had got no response. Taking me into the hallway, she then confided to me the numerous issues that she had with her neighbours.

  “It’s not the children’s fault,” she added, “but what sort of start in life have they got there?”

  We went back into the lounge and I knelt down beside the children.

  “Hello, what are you watching?” I asked softly.

  “Peppa Pig,” one of them replied, her speech difficult to understand.

  “I like cartoons, too. Scooby Doo is my favourite. My name’s John. What’s your name?”

  “Demi. And her name is called Maddison.” She pointed to her little sister. The younger child momentarily looked up before becoming distracted by the cartoon pig dancing across the TV screen.

  The girls looked to be aged about two and three years old. Both were slight and had pale, almost translucent complexions, with dark shadows under their eyes. Their long blonde hair was thin and wispy, and looked in need of a wash. As the younger one rubbed her nose, spreading mucus across her cheek in the process, I could see the ingrained dirt under her tiny fingernails.

  Demi had a dirty, stained vest on that was clearly too small for her, whilst Maddison wore a grubby, pink Hello Kitty T-shirt that was on back to front. Each wore stained light-blue leggings and whilst the older child had filthy, damp ankle socks, her baby sister was barefoot; neither had shoes nor coat despite the bitter January temperature.

  I thanked the neighbour for her help, and asked if she could look after the children for just a bit longer while I sorted things out. I stepped back into the street – into the hustle and bustle of colleagues rushing back and forth, dealing with the aftermath of the collisions. My mind, however, was elsewhere.

  I marched straight next door, but as soon as I started to walk up the short path, I could see immediate differences in comparison to the house I’d just left: here the formal borders of the Good Samaritan’s garden were replaced by something that resembled a corner of a field from the Somme. The churned-up mud was littered with empty lager cans, rubbish and cigarette butts – the majority of the latter looked to have been stubbed out on the front door as the white PVC was dotted with numerous burn marks, while in the centre someone had spray-painted: ‘If your from social services then Fuck Off’. I made a mental note to remind them of the difference between your and you’re, once my other concerns had been addressed.

  I went to knock, but the door was already ajar. I stepped inside shouting ‘police’ loudly, but there was no response. I had no idea what to expect or how long I’d be there, so did an about turn and went to see who else was available. Lloyd and Andy seemed surplus to requirements so I called them over. After quickly briefing them on what the neighbour had told me, Lloyd accompanied me back to the property, whilst Andy went next door to see the children.

  I shouted again as we entered the house, announcing our presence loudly, but to no avail. Instead, we stood in the hall and surveyed our surroundings. The layout of the house seemed identical to the one next door, but instead of pristine carpets and painted walls, I was standing on a sticky floor and looking at torn and dubiously stained wallpaper. Walking into the kitchen, every surface was covered with unwashed dishes and dirty pans – the grease inside them solidified into a white goo. The floor was filthy; strewn with discarded packets, used tea bags, half-crushed cans and plastic cider bottles. The only surface that was clear of any clutter was the one that should have been covered with paper but, instead of a colourful collection of children’s drawings, the fridge door was bare, save for a multitude of grimy fingermarks. The stench of the room was so overpowering that we were forced to beat a hasty retreat and explore elsewhere.

  My boots made suckering noises on the lino as I ventured into the dining room. The curtains were closed; the room in darkness. I flicked on the main light but the bulb was out. I went over and opened the curtains to let some light in, but it didn’t help much; the walls stained sepia by the effects of years of second-hand smoke seemed only to add to the dingy feel of the place. The room itself was relatively spartan except for an old table covered with numerous copies of the free local newspaper and several cardboard cases that had once contained bottles of lager. A stained and crumpled duvet was stuffed underneath the table alongside a muddy pair of children’s shoes.

  “There’s something moving there,” remarked Lloyd, pointing to the pile. Up until this point, we had been looking in stunned silence at the state of this so-called home. The fact that children were expected to live in this squalor made everything seem much worse. I bent down beside the table and saw a small head. I gently shook the shoulders and a young boy – aged about eight or nine – looked up at me, his eyes thick with sleep.

  “It’s ok,” I reassured him. “I’m a policeman. Where are your mum and dad?”

  He stared at me wide-eyed and wary. “Upstairs,” he eventually mumbl
ed.

  I looked at Lloyd and we started up the stairs, but not before glancing into the lounge. I had to do a double take: the room ran the whole width of the house and was dominated by a massive 52” flat-screen TV. A large leather sofa ran along one wall, whilst in the middle of the room a state-of-the-art gaming chair sat on a plush red carpet. It just seemed so at odds with the state of the rest of the place… As we made our way up, I made the mistake of holding onto the handrail; discovering that it was sticky to the touch. I swiftly let go – I’d rather risk falling.

  We looked in the children’s bedrooms first: no beds, no wardrobes, no pictures, no shelves, no chest of drawers, not a single toy, book or teddy bear – just piles of crumpled clothes and a mattress on the floor for the kids to sleep on.

  Since joining the police, I’d seen some filthy homes, but even my usually cast-iron stomach heaved when I entered the bathroom. The toilet was particularly disgusting; faeces caked around the bowl, rusty-coloured water lying stagnant at the bottom. Soiled, threadbare towels lay on the floor. Various substances stained the sides of the once white enamel sink, while a kind of gelatinous mush floated around the top where a bar of soap might once have been. Dusty and half-empty shampoo bottles lay in the bath, while numerous other containers littered an even dustier shelf. The floor beneath my feet was damp, my boot leaving a visible print in the swampy carpet around the bowl. The acrid smell of stale urine permeated throughout – someone in the household obviously liked asparagus.

  I wasn’t in the best frame of mind when, finally, I entered the main bedroom and my mood wasn’t helped when I saw that the adults had a bed – a huge, king-size wooden bed. They certainly didn’t appear to have skimped on furniture and accessories for themselves either, as a flat-screen television played mutely from the wall opposite the bed. One of the chests of drawers was adorned with different bottles of designer perfume; the other had a collection of empty glasses and half-drunk bottles of wine. An expensive laptop lay on the floor next to a couple of iPods and the latest mobile phone. The place had an unpleasantly warm and stifling odour, and I didn’t want to linger any longer than was absolutely necessary. I banged loudly on the door until I got a reaction from one of the sleeping figures. A hairy leg poked out from beneath the covers and a deep voice demanded to know who was disturbing their slumber: “Who the fuck’s that?”

  “It’s the police,” replied Lloyd. “There’s been an incident with your children. I need to see you downstairs now.”

  “Well fuck off, then, and let me get dressed.”

  “We’ll need to see your husband, too,” I added.

  Leaving them to dress, we made our way back to the lounge. I called our sergeant to update him, and asked if anyone else could come out to join us. He told me that Jess was the only other officer available. She was currently on her CID attachment, but this situation took priority and I was informed that she was already on her way. Just as I terminated the call, Bed Woman slumped into the lounge, yawning as she tightened the waistband of a towelling dressing gown around her ample form. Her look was somewhere between being pulled backwards through a hedge and recently surviving a flood. She still looked drunk. Who would have thought that sugar and spice and all things nice could end up like this when mixed with alcohol?

  “Well,” she slurred, “what the fuck are you doing in my house?”

  “There’s been an incident,” I started to explain.

  “There’s been an incident?”

  “Your children have been in the road,” I continued.

  “My children have been in the road?”

  “Listen!” interrupted an exasperated Lloyd. “Your kids have almost been killed in a multiple pile-up. They’re lucky to be alive. Now, how did they get into the street?”

  Before she could answer, Jess knocked at the front door and I shouted for her to come through.

  “And who the fuck is this coming into my house now?” the woman exclaimed, hands on hips.

  “She’s a plain-clothes officer,” I explained.

  “Very plain clothes from the look of it,” she sneered, looking my colleague up and down.

  Jess glanced over at me and then down at her own navy tailored skirt and jacket, as if I had lured her into some sort of fashionista trap. I think she felt even more slighted since the remark had come from someone who was clearly trying to bring Rubenesque back into style.

  In order to spare Jess any further unpleasant and unwarranted criticism, and to expedite matters, I quickly explained the circumstances – as far as I understood them, and how they had led to us all standing here.

  “I bet that fucking bitch next door has had a hand in this!” the woman jeered.

  “The lady next door has probably saved your children’s lives, by the sound of it,” I told her.

  “I’ll ask again,” persevered Lloyd. “Who was looking after your children? And how did they get out of the house?”

  The woman turned and shouted through to the dining room. “Get in here you little bastard! Have you fucking well let them get out again? I’ve fucking told you about that before, you little shit!”

  Before we could stop her, she had marched into the dining room, grabbed the young boy by his arm, yanking him from his sanctuary under the table, and flung him into the lounge, sending him sprawling to the floor. He got up quickly and sat on his haunches with his head bowed, cowering in his dirty grey boxer shorts. Unnervingly, the child didn’t call out in pain, but instead quickly shuffled backwards across the floor and away from his mother.

  “There’s your fucking suspect!” she declared, standing back and folding her arms. Lloyd stepped forward and put a protective arm around her son, looking back at the mother in utter disgust. Any other child would surely have cried, but he seemed to know better than to do so in his mother’s presence.

  What I had just witnessed sickened me to my core. Aren’t these meant to be a child’s golden years, the ones that shape their future? They should be full of happy memories, of joy and delight – not fear and neglect.

  It seems that every parent thinks they’re a terrible parent, except those parents who are actually terrible; to them, it’s always someone else’s fault. This job can sometimes make you hardened to life’s inhumanity, but I know that I’ll never get used to this sort of wickedness.

  “Right, that’s it!” I announced. “I’m arresting you for assault on the boy, I’m taking your three children into police protection and you’re also being locked up for child neglect.”

  “And that goes for you, too,” I said, pointing towards the woman’s partner who had just appeared. “You’re under arrest for child neglect too.”

  There followed a tense moment when he stared directly at me, his tattooed face contorted with rage; nor was his inking restricted to a solitary home-drawn teardrop, which, I presumed, was meant to suggest: ‘Yes, I may have been in prison, but I also have an undiscovered sensitive side’; no, this was an elaborate piece of ‘art’ that covered the entire length of one side of his face – a real Mike Tyson tribal affair. And neither was his rage that mildly indignant feeling you experience when you see two bus drivers who pass one another on the road yet fail to wave to each other: this was the sort of fury that looked like it may soon be accompanied by extreme violence. I instinctively placed my hand on my pepper spray; however, instead of leaping ten feet and grabbing me by the windpipe, he disappeared from view.

  “He’s run out the back door,” confirmed Lloyd, before going after him.

  “Don’t worry about that,” I countered, breathing a sigh of relief. “It’s an enclosed yard. He’s not going anywhere.”

  “He’s raking around the place,” added Jess, looking out of the window. “It looks like he’s trying to find some sort of weapon.”

  I peered out to see him picking up lengths of wood and then discarding them. He then grabbed a set of training weights, but they, too, were cast aside. It was as if he was looking to arm himself with the ideal weapon for his planned
revenge attack.

  “Just lock the back door for now,” I suggested. “We’ll deal with him when we have a few more people here.”

  The boy ran and locked it himself, and then asked if we could leave. He seemed petrified. As Jess led the woman out in handcuffs, her prisoner began to laugh, telling us we should leave now if we had any sense. As she finished speaking, the whole of the back door shook violently as something from outside smashed against it. Jess shot me a questioning look.

  “Don’t worry,” I informed her. “Those PVC doors are as hard as Sophie’s Choice. He’ll never get through it.”

  She raised her eyebrows quizzically and then carried on her way, taking the child with her.

  “But if you are going out to the car, can you see if anyone else is free?” I tried my best to make it sound like a nonchalant comment, but I wasn’t fooling anyone. “Well, look at him,” I whispered, turning to Lloyd, “he’s bloody potty!”

  The banging at the back door stopped.

  “Maybe he’s worn himself out?” remarked my colleague hopefully.

  BOOM! A contorted face slammed against the living-room window. His shirt was off and he clearly meant business. Sometimes, bodybuilders look like they have a tiny head because their bodies are so big and muscular; this guy’s head appeared to be normal size – it was his body that looked extra-massive. His skinhead haircut and snarling face merely served to reinforce the menacing picture in front of us. After stepping back a few yards, he then picked up a barbell and hurled it through the window, sending glass flying in every direction. He pressed his face through the gap, the jagged edges puncturing his cheeks.