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She rolled her eyes. “Suckered by the looks. Prettiest damn thing I ever made. His dad was a pretty boy too.”

“His dad?” The question was out before I could stop myself.

“Inside. Murder. Callum’s got the same bad blood in him, too. Born nasty.”

“I don’t think violence is hereditary, Mrs Jackson.” I met her eyes, challenging her with my own belief system.

“Believe what you like, love. Like I said before, kid’s a monster, always has been. Loves that bloody dog and not much else.”

I tried to hide my distaste, pushing it back behind a veneer of professional neutrality. “I’ll submit a further request on the window security, although they may want to survey the balcony, establish any access points.”

“He’ll find a way up, if he wants in. Would scale the bloody wall in the right frame of mind.”

“I’ll do my best with the funding.”

She stared at me, her face a weird mix of disdain and fascination. “You think I’m a bitch, getting rid of that dog.”

“It’s not my job to make judgement, Mrs Jackson.”

“Think it was spite. It weren’t.” She stood, kicked her way through rubbish to the living room door. She pushed it closed, where I could see the back of it. It was clawed to shit, destroyed almost all the way through. She toed the carpet to show me the threads, torn up all along the edge. “That dog’s got no place inside, couldn’t control the thing. Ain’t never had dogs, won’t be getting one, neither. Ty was helping me by getting shot of it, though Cal won’t see it that way. Hate each other these days.”

“Tyler Jones?”

“Got his problems, I know. Good lad, though, under it all.”

I pictured the Tyler Jones I’d seen in the garages, the Tyler Jones wishing Casey dead and landing his fist on Callum’s jaw. “Again, it’s not my place to make judgement.”

“Don’t be listening to that skanky ex of his, Vicki Pollock. Had a thing about Cal as long as I can remember, that one. She’d say anything to get a bit of sympathy. Ty may have raised his fists, ain’t denying that, but that little bitch would have asked for it.”

I knew of Vicki Pollock, ground floor of tower two, single mother of a young son, Slater, already on the at-risk register with Social Services. She had a direct link to the emergency services as part of the non-molestation order she’d been awarded against Tyler Jones. I’d seen her case file, met her numerous times as part of my initial tenancy visits. I struggled to believe any woman in her situation asked for that kind of violence, but I decided to keep my mouth shut in this instance. My pulse quickened, unease in my stomach. A stupid, ridiculous feeling.

“Are they together now? Your son and Vicki Pollock?” I raised my clipboard. “Background information for the funding case.”

“Asking the wrong person, love. I dunno. Doubt it, though.” I could almost see the cogs turning. “But then again... for the funding, like... I think he could be with her. She’ll be hostile towards me, as well... my friendship with Ty... they could both be after me.”

“I’ll take that into consideration.” I stood to leave, smiling as politely as I could muster. I made my way through to the hallway, craving the air outside. A door was open at the far end, revealing a tiny bedroom, walls a mass of colour and lines. I unconsciously took a step forward, straining for a better view.

Hannah Jackson followed my eyes. “Cal’s room, not that he was ever here much.” She paced on down, flicked the light switch. “Keep meaning to paint over it. Think I could get a decorating grant? For some magnolia?”

I joined her, pretending to consider it. The walls were alive; incredible, vivid scenes of horror colliding into each other. A portrait of Callum Jackson, crouched in the corner surrounded by flames. An urban landscape in greys and blacks, morphing into a crazy sunset. Some areas of the wall were much more rudimentary, biro scribblings of a child, most certainly, obscene language in jagged letters, faces with scribbled eyes. “This is quite something.”

“Couldn’t stop him. He’d paint with whatever he’d get his thieving little mits on. Painted in his own blood once when I took his pens off him.”

“Did he study? At school?”

“Never went to pissing school.” She lit up another cigarette, and her face lit up with it. “Tell you a funny story. When Cal was still a mite, eight maybe, I dunno, he got hooked up with old Jimmy Randall down Veil Parade. He loved it over there, went for years, learning all that bleeding spray painting. Anyway, one day he comes home, back to me and Rick, my ex, right as we was switching over to watch the soaps and that, and he sits down, proper serious like, and he says, hey, Mam, I’m gonna go to art college. Just like that, really bloody pleased with himself. He says, Jimmy says I’m good, says I can be an artist.” She cough-laughed, a picture of pure amusement. “Me and Rick nearly pissed ourselves, we did. Art college! Bloody art college! Like a kid like him’s ever gonna go to bloody art college. I said to him, I said, don’t be such a stupid, gay bloody poofter. Only fucking posh twats and faggots go to bloody art college, who d’you think you bloody are? Leonardo fucking Van Gogh or summat?”

My stomach fell, all the way to the floor, twisting in horror at the heartless crappy mother in front of me. “What did he say to that?”

She let out a belly laugh. “Nothing much, stupid little shit. Stormed off all huffy and smashed up all his pens and that. Threw them off the balcony. Called him little Leonardo fairy boy for ages, we did. Rick had to give him a hiding in the end to put an end to the sulking.”

I stared at the wall, trying to decipher the colliding scenes. “It looks pretty good, to me.”

“If you say so,” she laughed. “Try asking the pigs what they think of his art, been arrested for it more times than he’s had hot dinners.”

I forced myself away, while I could still hold my tongue. “I’ll be in touch soon, when I’ve filed the paperwork.”

“Make sure they gives me my window bars, won’t you? Don’t want him getting in here.”

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