‘Amy?’
Silence.
‘Amy, please say something.’
She doesn’t look at me. She doesn’t talk to me. Have I lost her for good? I try to imagine what she’s thinking, but I can’t.
Perhaps there is nothing left to say. We have tried everything, explored every inch of our prison, looking for a means of escape. The only thing we haven’t touched is the gun. It sits there still, calling to us.
I raise my head and catch Amy looking at it. She meets my eye and drops hers. Could she pick it up? A fortnight ago, I’d have said no way. But now? Trust is a fragile thing – hard to earn, easy to lose. I’m not sure of anything any more.
All I do know is that one of us is going to die.
Stepping out into the crisp, evening air, Helen Grace felt relaxed and happy. Slowing her pace, she savoured this moment of peace, casting an amused eye over the throng of shoppers that surrounded her.
She was heading for Southampton’s Christmas market. Ranged along the southern flank of the WestQuay shopping centre, the market was an annual event – an opportunity to buy original, hand-crafted presents that weren’t on any Amazon wishlist. Helen hated Christmas, but every year without fail she bought something for Anna and Marie. It was her one festive indulgence and she always made the most of it. She bought jewellery, scented candles and other trinkets but didn’t stint on the comestibles either, snapping up dates, chocolates, an obscenely expensive Christmas pudding and a pretty packet of peppermint creams – Marie was particularly partial to those.
She retrieved her Kawasaki from WestQuay car park and blasted through the city centre traffic, heading south-east towards Weston. She was speeding away from excitement and affluence and towards deprivation and despair, drawn inexorably towards the five monolithic tower blocks that dominate the skyline there. For years they’ve greeted those approaching Southampton by sea and in the past they were worthy of such an honour, being imposing, futuristic and optimistic. But it was a very different story now.
Melbourne Tower was by far the most dilapidated. Four years ago, an illegal drugs factory had exploded on the sixth floor. The damage was extensive, the heart ripped out of the building. The council promised to rebuild it, but the recession put paid to their plans. It was still technically scheduled for renovation but no one believed it would happen now. So the building remained as it was, wounded and unloved, abandoned by the vast majority of the families who used to live there. Now it was the terrain of junkies, squatters and those with nowhere else to go. It was a nasty, forgotten place.