Chapter 45

Chapter 45

It was strangely fitting that he should have ended up here, hiding out amongst the city's homeless. In years gone by, Ryan Marwood had spent much of his time amidst these lost souls, his St John Ambulance uniform earning him the goodwill and acceptance of everyone he encountered. He'd always had a kind word for them, occasionally doling out chocolate bars and cigarettes, but in reality he'd felt nothing for them. They were simply the backdrop to his search for vulnerable young girls – new faces on the street who'd respond to his baby face, his winning manner, following him obediently to his van in the hope of better things. The terminally dispossessed, with their grimy faces and their gnarled hands forever petting one-eyed dogs, repelled him. He couldn't endure their awful odour, their listless, lifeless eyes, but he'd concealed his distaste, preferring to present himself as a friend of those in need, a kind-hearted charity worker, in order to earn their trust. In that way, he had eventually become almost invisible to them, an ever-present fixture in their company, able to come and go without scrutiny or censure.

Last night had been a very different experience, however. Having escaped the family home, Ryan had made his way across town on foot, keeping to the back roads, hugging the shadows, praying he would not be spotted. His progress was swift and determined, interrupted only once by the sudden and unwelcome appearance of a patrol car as he neared Itchen Bridge. He had no idea if his disappearance had already been detected, if they were even now sweeping the city for him, so he took no chances, darting off the main road and running for the shelter of the murky underpass beneath. It was only once his heart had stopped thundering, once he'd caught his breath, that he'd taken in his surroundings. A dozen pairs of eyes stared back at him from within the cardboard settlement beneath the bridge, their suspicion and alarm palpable. The silence, the piercing quality of their gaze, let Ryan Marwood know that he wasn't welcome here, that intruders were to be repelled rather than accommodated, but he did his best to reassure the motley crew of unfortunates, holding up his hands in surrender to show that he meant them no harm, whilst scuttling away to the far corner of the bridge, finding a small, dry space amongst the discarded rubbish to bed down. It was disgusting, it was fetid, a far cry from his crisp clean sheets at home, but if he could hide out here unmolested for the night, he knew this counted as a small victory.

The night had passed slowly, the agitation of his mind echoed by the fevered scurrying in the darkness around him, foxes, rats and more searching for scraps. He'd tried to block them out, but he was on edge, his whole body tensed for flight, and sleep when it did come was punctured by terrible nightmares – vivid dreams that thrust him back into his prison hell, to that endless repetitive cycle of torture and violence, his fellow inmates gorging themselves on his fear. He'd woken at first light, unsettled, and was soon on his way, the same dozen pairs of eyes watching him every step of the way. Had they stayed awake all night? It didn't seem possible, yet Ryan's paranoia argued strongly that he had been under surveillance since his arrival. Indeed, to him it felt as if the eyes of the whole city were on him now.

Moving on, he stuck to quiet out-of-the-way streets, clinging to the wall as he hurried eastwards. His plan was simple – to make it to the Western Docks and then see if he could find his way onto one of the cargo trucks heading to London. He had some money on him, enough to bribe his way out of the city, but if all else failed, he would have to try and stow away, sneaking on board one of the vehicles whose drivers thought that they'd made it to the UK without any unsolicited human cargo. If he could do that, then he still might make it away.

He clocked the road signs for the docks and picked up his pace once more. Even at this early hour, when there were few people about, Ryan still scented danger. Every passer-by seemed to be scrutinizing him, the slow purr of every vehicle seemed to presage the arrival of another patrol car, his shame, his depravity visible to anyone who turned in his direction. If just one person stopped to look at him properly, to take in his sallow features, his downcast gaze, then he would be exposed and captured, he felt sure of it, hence his furious pace.

It was time to get out of Southampton for good.