Prey
Twenty-Two Years Ago
A woman in uniform approaches a large building, holding the hand of a small ginger-headed child. Steps lead up to solid timber double-doors with the kind of locks suggesting that once closed, these doors do not open again easily.
The child is perhaps six years old, and the hair, beyond ginger, is, brilliantly orange, straight and short, sticking out at different angles, none of which have much to do with the angle of the head.
There is a thin pale face under attack from a swarm of freckles which threaten to merge into one large freckle. The child is small and slight, and it would be uncertain if it were male or female except that the enormous green eyes say this is a girl.
And she’s crying.
She struggles to break away, digging in her heels and having to be dragged up every step. “Please, no… no.”
“Come on, Jennifer. Behave yourself for once.”
A billboard by the entrance towers above the little girl. It displays cartoon cows and sheep playing in a meadow; ‘Blessingmoors Children’s Home’.
The door opens, answered by a sallow-faced man with thin blond hair.
“Lost something?” smiles the woman. “One of yours, I think.”
The man smiles down at the child as she tries to step back, but the woman has a firm grip on her hand. “Ah, yes. Jennifer. We’ve missed you. That was very naughty of you, running away like that. Anything could have happened to you.” To the woman, “Where did you find her?”
“They picked her up in the supermarket trying to steal sweets.”
He gazes expressionlessly down at the child. “Oh, she’ll have to have a smack for that.”
“Take it easy on her. I think she’s learned her lesson.”
“Of course.” His smile is tight. “Come in then, Jennifer. Thank you for bringing her back to us.”
“My pleasure. Bye-bye Jennifer.”
The little girl tries to follow, but now the sallow-faced man has hold of her by the wrist. In a high, piping voice, “Don’t leave me here. Please take me with you. Please.”
The woman, with the air of patience wearing thin, turns back to her. “Don’t be silly, Jennifer. This is where you live. Mr Jenkins will look after you now.”
“Please. They’ll hurt me.”
“And don’t tell fibs. That’s naughty too. You deserve to be told off for being naughty, the way you behave.”
“Yes, she’s a regular little handful is our Jennifer,” says Mr Jenkins. “Come inside, Jenny.” His grip on the small hand is tight as he clicks the door closed behind her, then draws the bolt at the top.
Faces watch from a staircase, ranging from the very young to perhaps twelve or thirteen years old. None are older. All are silent, watching, but trying not to be noticed.
The man rounds on them. “What the fuck do you lot think you’re looking at?” Then he sniffs. “Still, perhaps you should all see this. Jennifer, Mr Klempner is very cross with you.”
She stares up at him, eyes big and green, face white.
“Yes, he is. What’s the most she’s had so far?” drawls a voice. It comes from a tall, fair-haired man leaning by a shoulder against the wall. His stance is all nonchalance, but the little girl swallows, trembling.
“Six.”
“Give her a dozen then, then put her in the cellars for a couple of days. And make her clean that up too, first,” he says, pointing down. “I don’t need pools of piss on the tiles.”
“Into the office, Jennifer.” The sallow-faced man points to a door. She doesn’t move. He reaches, grabs her by the wrists and lifts, to carry her dangling into the room, then puts her down again, jolting her to the floor. Staring down, he unbuckles his belt. “Bend over, Jennifer.”
She backs off, shaking her head
“I said, bend over.”
Pressed against the wall, still, she shakes her head.
He tuts, then pokes his head out to the corridor, “You and you.” He jabs fingers at a couple of teenagers. “In here, now. Hold her down over that chair.” Then, when they hesitate… “… Unless you want some yourselves?”
Whimpering, the small girl is forced down, and as the leather thrumms through the air and connects, she screams…
*****
Curled up small in the pitch darkness, Jenny hugs herself for warmth, trying to ignore the pain, the seeping cold and the sickly sweetish smell in the air.
Something scurries: a scratching sound, Quickly, Jenny sits up, arms wrapped around her knees, trying to hide herself from the scurriers. She wipes tears from her face, but she doesn’t call out. She learned long ago that no-one will come.
*****