Simon Lelic - The Child Who

He shoved his way through the group and towards the entrance, knocking someone’s arm and catching his on an outcrop of ash. He said sorry, did not turn, and pushed, pulled, until he found the right combination to open up a gap in the double glass doors.

Another security desk awaited him; another guard. This one seemed to have noticed the minor scuffle Leo had generated outside and rose, as Leo lurched across the lobby towards him, onto his size twelves.

‘Can I help you?’ He voiced the question as a challenge.

Leo was already looking over the guard’s sizeable polished head at the floor directory on the wall; and, beyond that, to the staircase and a treacherous-looking lift. There was no listing for the art department, if such a thing existed, but editorial was on the third floor. He aimed himself at the stairs.

‘Hey!’ The guard stepped and grabbed. Leo tried to dodge but found himself rooted.

‘Let go of me!’ Leo tugged at the man’s grip.

‘Do you have an appointment? Sir ? You can’t just walk in here, you know.’

‘I’m not, I’m… I’m a solicitor! I’m here to see… to see…’

‘ To see who?’ The guard released his hold on Leo’s lapels but built himself into a wall across his path.

‘One of your journalists. Covering the Forbes story.’ It was the only thing he could think of to say. He barely had a face to go on, after all, let alone a name.

‘Oh yeah? Which one?’ The gorilla folded its arms.

And then it came to him. Not the name he needed but a name nonetheless. ‘Cummins,’ he said. ‘Tim Cummins.’ The name on the byline. A man he had encountered, once in a while, amid the press gang that haunted the local courts.

The guard frowned. His lips gave a twitch and his arms, reluctantly, loosened.

‘Is he here? Please tell him Leo Curtice is here to see him.’ Leo straightened his jacket, settled his shoulders and fixed the man looming over him with his best supercilious stare.

Tim Cummins emerged from the lift with a finger in his teeth. He was precisely as unshaven as he was the last time Leo had seen him – on the steps outside the police station the day following Daniel’s arrest – which made him think the man’s sloth might be affected; a provincial attempt at Fleet Street flair. But then he withdrew his finger, nibbled at whatever piece of breakfast he had dislodged and extended the same hand for Leo to shake.

‘Mr Curtice. Leo! What brings you to these parts?’

‘Tim. Thanks for seeing me.’ Leo swallowed his distaste. He glanced towards the security guard, who was loitering with malcontent.

Cummins seemed to notice too. ‘Relax, Tiny. Stand down. Mr Curtice here is a personal friend.’

From the snarl that bubbled on the guard’s lips, he appeared not to appreciate the nickname.

The journalist herded Leo away from the guard and towards the lift. ‘Hey,’ he said, ‘listen, buddy. I am so sorry about this business with your daughter.’ He shook his head at the floor, worked a fingernail once more between his teeth. ‘But if there’s any way I can help. I mean, you’d be surprised how much traction an interview will get you. Have you thought about that? A one-to-one. Just me and you. We’d keep things tasteful, I promise. Tug a few heartstrings but all for a good cause.’ He raised an eyebrow.

‘Actually,’ said Leo, ‘there is something you can do to help.’

‘Really? Great. Just say the word, buddy.’

‘I’m looking for a colleague of yours. A photographer.’

Cummins let his disappointment show.

‘He said he was freelance. He was young, ish, and wore a cap. It had a logo on it. A picture of a shark or something. It looked American. From a baseball team maybe.’

‘Football. The Miami Dolphins. But… er… I’m not sure who you mean. We have so many snappers, Leo – particularly the jobbing kind. It’s a big paper, buddy.’

It was not. It was a local rag with tabloid airs. And Cummins was lying.

‘Listen, Tim. This is important. It’s to do with my daughter. I’m asking for help. Please. I need your help.’

They reached the lift. Cummins jabbed a button, summoning his means of escape. ‘Sorry, Leo.’ He spoke to the lights above the doors. ‘Can’t help you. I’d love to, you know I would, but Tiny over there: he probably knows more of the faces that come and go here than I do. Why don’t you ask him?’

The guard was on the phone now, seated and angled towards the wall.

‘This photographer,’ said Leo to Cummins. ‘He followed us. Me and my family. To Dawlish. All we were doing was buying ice cream.’

Cummins glanced.

‘He said he was working for the Post ,’ Leo said.

Cummins hit the call button again. He sniffed, gave his head a single shake. ‘I can only apologise, Leo. Darryl Blunt, our lifestyle editor: he thinks he’s running OK! I’ll have a word with Daz on your behalf. Tell him to keep a leash on his paparazzi.’ He studied the lights, tapped his foot.

‘It was you,’ Leo said. ‘Wasn’t it? You sent him. You’ve been sniffing for an angle on the Forbes story from day one.’ How does it feel: isn’t that what Cummins had asked him, that day outside the police station? How does your family feel about your involvement in this case?

The lift arrived. Cummins beamed.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘this is me. Good to see you, Leo. Thanks for stopping by.’ He seemed to consider holding out a hand but did not. ‘Best of luck with… er… everything.’ He darted into the empty compartment and started jabbing at one of the numbers.

‘Tim. Please! I just need his name. His address. Anything!’

Cummins gave a lazy salute. ‘Take care, buddy.’ The doors of the lift began to close.

Leo glanced over his shoulder, at the guard still whispering into his phone. He looked at Cummins, at his fleshy grin about to vanish behind a sheen of metal. And then he sprung: between the doors and into the lift, in pursuit of his very last hope.

He had lied. The address was a fake. The name too, probably. Leo had half a mind to go back there. Not half a mind: he would. Right now. He would call the police if it came to it, or threaten to, or—

He stopped mid-step, squinted at Cummins’s scrawl on the scrap of paper. Unless… this was it. Was it? The address, after twenty minutes searching, seemed to match. Flat 2, 2b Plymouth New Road, which did not sound like a real address at all – but here, on a door that looked like a fire exit, was a 2 and a drunken b. There were no names on the buzzers so Leo pressed the middle one of the three. He held it, until the buzzing gave way to static.

‘Yeah? Who’s there?’

‘Mr, er…’ Leo checked the name again, then changed his mind and slipped the note into his pocket. ‘Er… Archie? Is that you?’

‘Yeah. S’right. Who’s that?’

‘This is, um, Tim Cummins. From the Post .’ Leo put on his deepest, fattest voice. ‘I need to talk to you.’

‘Tim? What’s up? Can it wait? I’m not exactly up yet.’

Leo looked incredulously at his watch. ‘No! It can’t! I mean…’ Deeper. Fatter. ‘Just let me in. Er, buddy. It’s important.’

There was a groan, followed by a rasping sound: an intercom receiver, perhaps, being dragged across sandpaper skin. And then a pause, which extended – until a siren-loud buzzing beckoned Leo in.

The hallway was windowless and unlit. Leo stood blind amid a stench like bins until a cleft of light broke the darkness on the landing.

‘Hit the lights,’ came a voice. ‘The switch right beside you.’

Leo reached for the wall, then pulled back. He headed instead for the hulking shadow of the staircase.

‘On the wall. Right beside you. Oh for God’s sake. Here.’ Movement: the silhouette of a shuffling dressing gown. And then the bulb in the hallway came on, casting a light as thick as the lingering odour. Leo was only halfway up the stairs.