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‘OK, OK!’ Shannon shouted. ‘I’ll tell you!’

  Immediately the banging and kicking stopped.

  ‘Where are they?’ demanded Kelly.

  ‘Back away from the door and promise me you won’t hurt me.’

  There was a pause, and then Kelly said, ‘I promise.’

  ‘You’re still too close,’ said Shannon. ‘Move back and call again so I can hear you’ve moved away.’

  There was another pause, then Shannon thought she heard Kelly’s footsteps on the floor walking back. Finally Kelly called, ‘OK! I’m away! Open the door!’

  Shannon hesitated. What would happen when she did? Would Kelly attack her? She was sure to, and Shannon doubted if she would be able to defend herself against her. She looked around the bathroom for something — anything — she could use as a weapon, but there was nothing.

  ‘Come on!’ called Kelly impatiently. ‘Open the door!’

  The door, thought Shannon. Solid and heavy. It was the only thing she had on her side.

  ‘I’m opening it now!’ she called.

  She slipped the lock open, turned the handle, opened the door and peered out. Kelly was standing back from the door, as she’d promised. She was holding Shannon’s bag with one hand, and her other hand was behind her back.

  What’s she holding? thought Shannon. Something to hit me with?

  ‘Come on out,’ said Kelly.

  ‘No,’ said Shannon, stepping back a bit into the bathroom. ‘You come here. Slowly.’

  Kelly hesitated, as if deciding what to do, and then she nodded and moved forward.

  ‘And put your hands where I can see them,’ said Shannon.

  Kelly stopped, and once again Shannon saw the anger and violence flare up in the woman’s face. Then Kelly let out another roar of rage and rushed towards Shannon, her hand coming out from behind her back. Shannon was shocked to see a gun pointed straight at her as Kelly charged, and for one heart-stopping second Shannon was too stunned to do anything, like a rabbit caught in the headlights. And then, as Kelly dived towards her, Shannon kicked the bathroom door shut with all her might.

  The hard wood smashed into Kelly full face, hitting her with the combined force of Kelly’s speed, Shannon’s kick, and the weight of the heavy door.

  Kelly crumpled to the floor in the doorway of the bathroom, her eyes wide open but blank, the gun falling from her hand. Shannon didn’t wait to find out if the woman was alive, dead or just unconscious. She scooped up her bag from the floor and ran for the door of the apartment as fast as she could.

  As she tore the door open she heard a cough and a groan behind her. Then she was running for the stairs and racing down them at breakneck speed, as fast as her legs would carry her.

  13

  The canal. It was quiet now. The kids had gone. Everyone had gone. Everyone except Shannon.

  She walked down the steps to the canal path and headed for the bench where she’d been sitting when she was attacked. If the Pringles box was going to be anywhere, it would be there. It should be there.

  As she walked, her eyes scanning the ground, she shook her head to try and shake off this feeling that everything was going crazy around her. Diamonds! Why would there be diamonds inside a box of Pringles?

  She remembered the news item on the TV, the newsreader talking about a diamond robbery in Amsterdam. This wasn’t Amsterdam, this was London. How did it all fit together? It was mad. Unreal. But Kelly had been real enough, as had the gun she’d been holding, ready to shoot Shannon.

  She reached the bench and looked around. No sign of a Pringles box. As she’d thought, the box must have rolled or been kicked away. Maybe gone into the canal. Or maybe someone had seen it and picked it up and opened it, and found the diamonds. If there really were diamonds inside it.

  But why would anyone pick up a box of Pringles? Not to eat it. Anything could have happened to it. A dog could have pissed on it. It could be germy. Diseased. No, it was more likely that someone had seen it and kicked it into the canal for fun.

  Then, as she was turning away, she saw it, wedged behind one leg of the bench. She picked the box up, flipped off the plastic lid and turned the tube upside down. A little black bag fell into her hand.

  She dropped the box and carefully opened the black bag.

  It was full of diamonds.

  Even in this half-light she recognised them for what they were, sparkling brilliantly, just like they did in the TV commercials.

  Diamonds. Thousands and thousands of pounds’ worth . . . No, make that millions of pounds’ worth! And she had them right here in her hand.

  Shannon wasn’t sure how she got home. All she knew was that she did. No one came after her. No one attacked her. Once home, she was dimly aware of her father in the living room, but she didn’t stop to say anything. What could she say? ‘I’ve got a shitload of stolen diamonds’?

  She walked into her room, shut the door and threw herself on the bed. She was going to lie here and think about everything that had happened to her since Friday. She was going to work it out. Work out what to do. About the diamonds. About her friends. About her mum. About her life.

  Instead, without realising it was happening, she fell asleep. It was as if the pain and terror of the whole past few days had suddenly overwhelmed her and her body and brain were desperate to switch off before she went into meltdown.

  There, on her unmade bed, wearing another woman’s clothes, and with a fortune lying on her bedside table in a little black bag, Shannon slept.

  14

  When Shannon woke the next morning it was ten o’clock, and her first thought was that it must have all been some weird dream. But then she looked down at the clothes she was wearing, and at the black bag on her bedside table, and knew it was real. As she moved to get up, she felt an ache in her ribs from where she’d been kicked by the kids. Definitely no dream.

  She picked up the little black bag and opened it. They were still there, the diamonds, glinting and beautiful. If you liked that sort of thing, thought Shannon. What was that song? Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend. Not me, she thought.

  She thought again about how she’d got hold of them. Ted’s 24-Hour Mart. Jo and Dillon kissing, Shannon throwing money at Jo and snatching the box of Pringles from the display, and the rest of the boxes falling down.

  Did they all contain diamonds, or just that one box?

  She had to phone Jo. She was the only one who could throw light on the mystery, on what was going on.

  She reached for her bag to get her mobile, and remembered it was gone. All the stuff in her bag had been scattered about that room by Kelly. There was no way to get hold of it now.

  Shannon hurried downstairs to the hallway, picked up the landline and phoned Jo’s number. The voicemail kicked in almost straight away.

  Shit! thought Shannon. She heard the beep for her to leave a message and said, ‘Jo, it’s Shannon. I don’t know what the fuck is going on, but I think I got some stolen diamonds from your shop, so gimme a call. On my home phone. Please.’

  She hung up. She wondered where Jo was, and why her phone was switched off. Was she with Dillon? Lying in bed with him, screwing?

  The phone ringing made her jump and she snatched it up.

  ‘Jo?’ she burst out.

  ‘No, Kerrys,’ said Kerrys’s voice. ‘Listen, I got a message. Cassandra found a note meant for you.’

  Her mum’s note!

  ‘Where is it?’ asked Shannon.

  ‘Like I say, Cass had it. She phoned me from New York . . .’

  New York! She’d have to wait for ages before she could hold it and read it. She put her hand to her head, a sick feeling in her stomach.

  ‘I’m sorry, Kerrys, I can’t talk now,’ she said numbly. ‘I gotta do things.’

  With that, she hung up. She looked down at the clothes she was wearing, Kelly’s clothes, and felt anger surge through her. This wasn’t her! She had to get control of her life!

  She ran back up the stairs to
her room and tore off the clothes as if they were contaminated. Which they were. Everything about Kelly was contaminated. She slipped into her combats and black hoody. Now she was Shannon again. She was Shannon, and she was going to get answers.

  She went back downstairs and into the living room. Her father was slumped on the couch, a bottle of vodka cradled in his hand. Had he even moved since last night?

  ‘Where’s Mum gone?’ she asked. ‘Gimme her address.’

  Her father looked at her, his eyes red-rimmed and bleary. Hurt and hurtful.

  ‘You know what?’ he slurred. ‘I’ve changed my mind. This is your fault!’

  He pushed himself up off the couch, but immediately stumbled and sank back down.

  ‘Just tell me where she is,’ said Shannon, her voice firm. She didn’t have time for this.

  Her father looked at her, at first belligerently, and then he subsided, like a punctured balloon. Now he just looked small and shrivelled and sad. His head dropped down, then he forced it up again. He pointed at a Post-it note stuck to the TV.

  ‘Your Aunt Sandy gave me a forwarding address,’ he said.

  Shannon strode over to the TV set and snatched the Post-it note.

  ‘Are you going to bring her back?’ her father asked.

  Shannon looked at him. He looked old and tired, his voice whining, self-pitying, beaten.

  ‘Why would I do that?’ asked Shannon.

  And she left, clutching the Post-it note in her hand.

  15

  Shannon stood in the cover of an alley to the side of the apartment block, her eyes on the entrance, doing her best to look inconspicuous. This place looked plush. Maybe not as plush as Kelly’s apartment block, but more than Shannon’s flats. There’d be security here, watching out for people like her, kids with hoods hiding their faces. She was surprised no one had come to warn her off already; she’d been here quite a while, waiting.

  She’d pressed the bell when she arrived, but there’d been no answer. Security keypads meant she couldn’t just wander in, she had to be let in. And so she waited.

  Suddenly she saw her mother, walking towards the apartment block. But it was her mother like she’d never seen her before. Glowing. Bouncy. Arm in arm with a man who was as different from her father as any man could be. Handsome, cool, rich-looking. Confident. Smiling and chatting away.

  Shannon stepped out from the side alley into their path, and her mother stopped, her mouth opening in shock.

  ‘Shannon!’ she exclaimed. She looked confused, bewildered. ‘How did you . . . How did you . . . ?’

  ‘Not “How are you?”’ Shannon snapped at her, her voice heavy with sarcastic anger. ‘Well, lemme tell you how I am. I’ve been mugged. I’ve been chased by drunk men. I’ve been kidnapped by some mad woman who held a gun on me. I’ve had my phone stolen. And not one of my friends will speak to me for longer than thirty seconds. No one wants to listen to me!’

  Her mother still looked taken aback. The man with her looked embarrassed, but he forced a smile to Shannon.

  ‘Hi,’ he said awkwardly.

  That one word appeared to jolt her mother, who seemed aware of the man for the first time, and conscious that she was holding on to his arm.

  ‘Shannon, my daughter,’ she explained to him. Turning to Shannon, she said, ‘Shannon, this is Carl . . .’

  ‘Are you listening?’ Shannon shouted angrily. ‘Fuck Carl!’

  At this Carl nodded, discreetly disengaged himself from Mrs Richards’ arm, and moved away to let them talk. Shannon watched him go and then turned to glare at her mother. Her mother, in turn, now that Carl had moved out of earshot, glared back at her daughter.

  ‘I wrote you a note to avoid a scene like this!’ she hissed.

  ‘I didn’t get it!’ snapped back Shannon. ‘You should have talked to me, not written a note!’

  ‘Look, this is the happiest I’ve been since . . . before you were born,’ appealed Mrs Richards. ‘You can’t just come up here and mess it up for me!’

  ‘Why not?’ demanded Shannon. ‘You messed it up for me!’

  ‘No, I didn’t!’ countered her mother angrily.

  ‘Yes, you did! You made me get rid of her!’

  Mrs Richards fell silent and dropped her gaze, unable to meet Shannon’s eyes for a moment. Finally, awkwardly, she said, ‘It was your choice.’

  ‘You made me think it was!’ Shannon countered, and now the tears that had been filling up behind her eyes began to spill out.

  Mrs Richards looked away from her daughter’s accusing stare, her tears.

  ‘We talked about it,’ she said defensively. ‘Together.’

  ‘You talked about it!’ insisted Shannon. ‘But you were only thinking about how it would affect you! Everything was about you!’

  ‘I stayed in that marriage for you!’ Mrs Richards snapped back, stung. ‘To make life good for you!’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ spat back Shannon, the tears now running openly down her face. She pulled back the sleeves of her top, revealing the scars on her arms, each one a memory of a cut with a knife, a razor, scissors. ‘Didn’t you ever think to ask me about these?’

  Her mother stood, helpless, looking at her daughter’s scarred arms, and her face collapsed. She fought it, biting her lip against her tears, and turned towards Carl.

  Shannon rolled down her sleeves, gave her mother one last bitter look, then turned and walked away.

  Night. Shannon was going towards Westminster Bridge. The little black bag with the diamonds was in her pocket. She walked along the pavement of the bridge, heading for the middle. The Thames moved and rocked and the reflected lights formed patterns on the surface of the dark waters.

  She’d show them. All of them. Her mother. Her so-called friends. Her enemies. The kids who’d hurt her. The woman who’d tried to kill her. Dillon. Her father. The list stretched back. Well, it stopped here. Tonight. Right now.

  Tonight was the end.

  CASSANDRA

  16

  Friday

  Cassandra sat in the back of the Bentley, looking at the back of Ronald’s head. Ronald the driver, complete with uniform and peaked cap. What did it say about her? That she was some spoilt rich bitch, protected from the world by her parents’ money? She wondered if that was how the other girls saw her. They always seemed so together, Cass, Kerrys, Jo and Shaz, but their lives were planets apart. Look at how Kerrys had dealt with that creep in the Cappuccino just now, smacking him to the floor, real street style. And Jo, working at that 24-hour convenience store when she wasn’t at college. Even Shannon was more street than Cass.

  Her thoughts turned to her upcoming flight to New York. Not the audition with Mr Larofsky — that was really so important it went without saying. No, she thought about Brett. In just a few hours she would be in his arms, naked, her body against his, his penis inside her, feeling that for the very first time . . .

  ‘We’re here, Miss Cassandra.’

  Ronald’s voice jolted her out of her dream. They were outside her apartment block.

  ‘Thank you, Ronald,’ she said.

  She got out and went into the block, caught the lift up, all the way wondering what Brett would be like in real life. In his pictures he looked fabulous: handsome, with the nicest smile she’d ever seen. He looked so cool, and there was something special in his eyes: caring, concern. She couldn’t wait to get her arms around him.

  She was about to unlock the door of her apartment, when she saw that the door was already open, and a feeling of anger welled up inside her. It had to be her mother. Again!

  She walked in and, sure enough, Mrs Phillips sat on the couch, like a queen bee in the centre of her domain.

  ‘You can’t just walk into my flat whenever you want!’ Cassandra told her angrily.

  Her mother looked coolly back at her.

  ‘As long as your father and I pay the mortgage, I can,’ she retorted. She got up from the settee and added, ‘I’m here to make sure everything’s set and y
ou’re ready to go.’

  Cass sank down on to one of the plush expensive designer chairs, weighed down by the claustrophobia of it all.

  ‘Do you have to be involved in everything I do?’ she demanded miserably.

  ‘This audition is your future,’ her mother told her briskly. ‘Sir Jago Larofsky is only taking on three students when he moves to Europe. You will be one of them.’

  ‘Providing I’m good enough,’ said Cassandra.

  ‘You are good enough,’ said her mother firmly. ‘You have the talent and — Lord knows — expensive enough tutors. If your father and I didn’t think you were good enough, we wouldn’t be funding this trip.’

  ‘You’re suffocating me!’ appealed Cass.

  ‘Nonsense!’ retorted Mrs Phillips. ‘Are your father and I going with you to New York? No. We just have a determined interest in your life.’

  Mrs Phillips opened her bag and took out a bundle of notes, which she handed to Cassandra.

  ‘Here’s some money for the trip,’ she said. ‘A thousand dollars. I’m sure you can find something nice to spend it on. Also, get something for your father. Cigars or wine. Something men like.’

  She looked at her watch.

  ‘We have to go,’ she said. ‘There have been dreadful queues at transatlantic check-ins lately. Your father’s waiting in the car downstairs.’

  ‘I could have got a cab,’ said Cassandra. ‘Or Ronald could have taken me.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, dear. This is the biggest moment of your life so far. Jago Larofsky!’

  And Brett, thought Cass.

  ‘I’ll just check I’ve got everything,’ said Cass.

  ‘Don’t be too long,’ warned her mother. ‘Traffic to Heathrow is dreadful at this time on a Friday.’

  As soon as her mother had gone, Cassandra went to the couch, opened one of the cushions and pulled out a plastic bag filled with cash. This, along with the money her mother had given her, would make this weekend in New York extra special. Money, she thought. It doesn’t make you happy, but it sure helps you be miserable in comfort.