I love children, but of all the children in the world, none are as precious as the special girl who lifts her head and looks at me with doleful eyes when I open the door of the van, which I’ve moved several times today, keeping moving so no one notices it.

‘Look what I brought you,’ I say, setting the box down on the pull-out table.

‘A kitty cat?’ Her face lights up as she registers the incessant meowing.

‘That’s right. A kitten. Just for you.’

‘What colour is it?’

‘Let’s open the box and see, shall we?’

I open the lid and the cat springs out before I can get hold of it, a blur of fur and claws. I try to grab it but it scratches me and hisses pathetically. I swipe at it, knocking it to the floor, its oversized head causing it to pitch forward and roll over before skittering back to its feet.

‘Stop, stop.’ She’s squealing.

The cat dashes around the floor like a cornered rat. I’m cursing it, trying to scoop it up, and I finally manage to grab it. Just as I lift it, it squirts out a geyser of shit, the foulest-smelling gunk in the history of foul smells. To add insult to injury – or should that be the other way round? – it bites my finger and scratches my wrist.

I drop it, and before it can get away, I stamp on the wretched thing’s back.

‘Stop that fucking noise,’ I yell at the girl. ‘Stop it, or I’ll fucking stamp on you too.’

She’s hyperventilating now and I regret being so harsh. The kitten is still alive, though its back must be broken. There’s shit all over its fur. What a fucking great idea that was.

I grab it and chuck it out the door like it’s a soft toy.

Now I have to deal with a distraught child.

‘Mummy, mummy,’ she sobs, taking long fragmented breaths. ‘I want my mummy.’

‘It’s OK,’ I say. ‘It’s OK. We’ll get you another kitten. I can get you one right now.’

It’s when she starts to scream, that boiling old-style kettle noise that is so high-pitched I can only just hear it, that I have to clamp my hand over her mouth, push her into the tiny cupboard. I don’t have any choice. I can’t risk anyone hearing her. Not now.

Not ever.

Chapter 11

Chapter 11
Jerome – Day 2

Jerome Tyson Smith stood at the window in his snow-white jockey shorts, pushing out his pecs and rubbing his abs with the flat of his hand, and gazed out over the piece-of-shit estate he called home.