Chapters (88)
- Cover
- Title Page
- Dear Reader …
- Also by Robert Muchamore
- PART ONE
- Walter J Freeman Adolescent Mental Health Unit – East Grinstead, UK
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- PART TWO
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- PART THREE
- Walter J. Freeman Adolescent Mental Health Unit – East Grinstead, UK
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- FORTY-ONE
- FORTY-TWO
- FORTY-THREE
- FORTY-FOUR
- FORTY-FIVE
- FORTY-SIX
- FORTY-SEVEN
- FORTY-EIGHT
- FORTY-NINE
- FIFTY
- FIFTY-ONE
- FIFTY-TWO
- FIFTY-THREE
- FIFTY-FOUR
- PART FOUR
- FIFTY-FIVE
- FIFTY-SIX
- FIFTY-SEVEN
- FIFTY-EIGHT
- FIFTY-NINE
- SIXTY
- SIXTY-ONE
- SIXTY-TWO
- SIXTY-THREE
- SIXTY-FOUR
- SIXTY-FIVE
- SIXTY-SIX
- SIXTY-SEVEN
- SIXTY-EIGHT
- SIXTY-NINE
- SEVENTY
- SEVENTY-ONE
- SEVENTY-TWO
- SEVENTY-THREE
- EPILOGUE
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- Have you read KILLER T?
- 1 SLASHED RUBBER
- 2 NOT HARRY POTTER
As Wendy reversed back down the alleyway, Georgia got the horrible feeling she’d taken the workshop key off her ring. She smiled when she saw it, and got a Don’t I know you from somewhere? look from a lad passing with a tray of coffees for the market research company two doors along.
The workshop’s ventilation hadn’t been on in months and Georgia was hit by dead air and nostalgia as she stepped inside. She remembered the workshop being light, with drones hand-built at two long workbenches, while Uncle Phil and her dad worked on a mezzanine floor at the rear.
Police had searched the warehouse after the attack on the PM and nobody had taken down strands of EVIDENCE – DO NOT TOUCH tape.
While the front of the building was part of a Victorian stable block, the rear extension was an aluminium-sided cube. Georgia wasn’t sure if the electricity was connected, so the light coming on was a bonus.
The rear had been used for storing components and a huge 3D printer. Now, the clean space looked like a modern art gallery, the main exhibit a pair of Ikea sofas that looked smaller and tattier than Georgia’s memory of them.
Her old bed was tipped on end. Her wardrobe was nearby, but only a few stickers from early childhood were inside. Luckily, John had done a decent job labelling up cardboard moving boxes with a label printer that had belonged to his company.
John had enlivened the tedium of labelling dozens of boxes with humour. Georgia laughed at Georgia’s overpriced Japanese stationery and Stupid Kitchen Gadgets (Never Used). She had to slide boxes marked Nasty Ikea China and Beach Towels/Swimwear to get to Cookie’s clothes I, II and III.
She needed a knife to cut the thick packing tape and was wondering where to get one when her phone rang: Julius calling.
‘’Sup,’ Georgia said brightly, as she propped herself on a sofa arm. ‘I was wondering how you were getting on.’
‘So-so,’ Julius said. ‘Ankle itching?’
‘You saw my post,’ Georgia laughed. ‘It certainly itches when someone reminds me. Where are you?’
‘Just ordered lunch in a restaurant on King’s Road. The family house is a zoo. So I’ve spent one sleepless night getting bitten by fleas in a run-down farmhouse, followed by a night on a tiny kid’s mattress in the third-floor study. Bad news is, I’ve got a crick in my neck. The good is, I’ve got money and some other stuff I need.’
‘Need for what?’ Georgia asked.
‘Not sure,’ Julius admitted. ‘The thing is, there’s no room in the house and it’s the first place Immigration will come knocking. I wondered if you knew anywhere I could stay until I’m ready to fly home.’