If it took him the rest of his life and every penny of his considerable fortune, he would find the bastard. And when he did, when he confronted him, he would exact his payment, which was death. A long slow death.

Putting Mandy’s hand to his mouth, he kissed it softly.

Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

Christmas 1948

George lay in bed staring up at the ceiling. He pulled the blankets over his shoulders and rubbed his frozen ears with his hands, breathing into his palms every so often to warm them. His whole body was numb with cold. The sash windows had iced up inside, reflecting weird murals on the walls with the breaking dawn. He poked his head out of the blankets once more as he heard a noise from his mother’s room. He let his breath out slowly, carefully, watching it spiral like cigarette smoke in the cold dimness. He strained his ears to listen. Nothing. Gradually he relaxed. Then he heard the dull thud of footsteps on the linoleum. He squeezed his eyes shut as hard as he could. Maybe it was Mother going to the toilet? Or Edith? But the footsteps stopped outside his door.

He hunched himself lower down in the bed. The inadequate bedding barely covered him - one sheet, one blanket, and an old overcoat.

He closed his eyes and tried to feign unconsciousness, his mouth quivering with apprehension. He listened as the door creaked open slowly and someone came into the room. George’s nose quivered as he smelt the heavy mustiness of the man. It was a mixture of sweat and beer. He was terrified. The man moved towards the bed purposefully, treading only on the boards he knew would not creak.

‘Georgie? You awake?’

The child lay there unmoving. His heart was beating so loud and fast surely the man could hear it?

He closed his eyes even tighter, then felt the warm breath on his neck. George’s head was tucked beneath the blanket and overcoat, and he instinctively brought his knees up to his chest until he was in a foetal position.

A large warm hand entered the bed and George felt the roughness of the skin as it began slowly to caress his buttocks. Then the bed was sinking with the weight of the man, and against his will the child was rolling into his heavy stomach.

At least he was warm.

Then the blankets were pulled over both their heads and George was being dragged down, down, into the fantasy world that was his only escape from this life.

Later the man crept from the bed, and George could finally sleep the sleep of the exhausted. His eyelashes still glistening with the silent tears, he lay there in the warm space the man vacated.

He slept then.

Bert Higgins slipped back into bed with Nancy Markham and was just settling himself when she spoke.

‘How was Georgie tonight, Bert?’

He froze beside her.