I glance back at the photos of him in his many positions of power. Danny’s obviously a man who knows how to get things done.
He’s right. I need his help to find my mother.
CHAPTER 10
I open the door to Ronnie’s room. I don’t go in; instead I remain rooted outside staring boldly inside. Danny’s right, I need to sort out my impasse with Sugar. And that’s why I’ve come to my adoptive father’s home the day after meeting my blood father. Sugar isn’t at home, and neither is Ronnie. Sugar’s been absent so much lately. Does it have anything to do with the investigation he was talking to John Dixon about? Or maybe it’s memories of Cherry; sometimes they are so potent, so powerful, he needs to get outside to suck in fresh air. I’ve had that sensation too, for two different mothers, one who is dead and the other who I hope with all my heart is not lost to me.
Ronnie’s room is on the ground floor, tucked away just beyond the stairs. At least Sugar hasn’t moved her into his and Cherry’s room upstairs. It chokes me up just thinking about it. Her room puzzles me. It is stripped back and spare. Bare walls too. And floor. A simple, narrow bed, small bedside cabinet and plain wardrobe. No pictures, no photos or any personal effects of any kind as far as I can see. Even prisoners put things on their walls – usually treasured keepsakes that keep them rooted to loved ones in the outside world. Where are Ronnie’s keepsakes? Her connection to the precious people in her life?
I shiver as I leave and head towards the kitchen for something cool in the fridge to soothe the sudden dryness in my throat. A pulse in my temple is throbbing too. I freeze at the bottom of the stairs. Was that a noise? I listen. No doubt Ronnie is back. I peer at the front door in the semi-dark of the hallway. That is odd; no one’s coming in. There’s no rattle and clink of keys.
The hairs on the back of my neck suddenly stand up. Rounding the stairs, I see the door to Sugar’s private room is wide open. Briskly I stride over, and then shock holds me frozen in the doorway. There’s a stranger inside. Balaclava. Gloves. Someone is dressed head to toe in robber black. Numbness robs me of the ability to move. The intruder has gone through the room like a human hurricane, turning what was a chaotic office into the scene of a disaster. My shaking palm slaps over my mouth when I see what he’s holding. A crowbar. Black. Steel. Lethal. He’s so intent on trying to bust the locks on one of Sugar’s cabinets he doesn’t notice my presence. That’s what wakes me up. In situations like this Sugar is clear – get on the phone and contact the police. Never tackle an intruder on your own. I forget all that, with outrage propelling me to do the one thing he taught me never to do.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
Surprised by the outraged sound of my voice, the figure reels in my direction. Hastily, I grab the nearest object, a glass vase filled with tulips, the flowers tipping on to the floor. I should be afraid, cowering out of sight, but when Sugar carried me away from the children’s home, leaving Little Eva behind, I vowed never again to be helpless when threatened. Stand firm and punch the living daylights out of those who dare. Consumed by this overwhelming shockwave of rage, vase held high, I charge with the savage intent of a banshee towards the intruder. I let loose with a resounding blow to his shoulder. His body rocks with a gruff grunt, but he doesn’t go down. Or even stagger.
He lunges at me. I drop the vase and punch him. Viciously, his fingers dig into my arm right down to the bone. Snatching the material of his top, I hold on tight. We skate backwards, out of the room, grappling in the hallway. Somehow he’s behind me now, locking me in a chokehold. I smell him; fresh, slightly fragrant. I’ve been making assumptions. This could be a woman. Their arm is coiled around me tighter than the serpent on the DNA test box. Spit and oxygen gurgle in my windpipe. My eyes bulge. I’m yanked backwards. I go limp, a defence move Sugar taught me, lulling my attacker into thinking I’m unconscious. The pressure of their body relaxes. I ram a sharp elbow into this person’s gut to make him-her loosen their grip. Holy hell! It doesn’t work. With the hell-bent intent of barbed wire their spare arm wraps around my waist. I’m lifted, twisted and body slammed to the ground.
Back arching off the floor, a brutal bolt of pain grips me. It is then I feel the fear. What strikes me with terror is the bastard’s breathing. Rough, muffled, scary as hell, like an animal about to unleash claws and knife-edged teeth. They move over me. Looming, menacing, my attacker raises the crowbar.