Don't Breathe

and decided to confide in his friend.
‘Apart from being my biological dad, no clue.’
‘He’s a gangster.’
Harley laughed. ‘He’s a property developer. You’ve been watching too much TV. He does old houses up and sells them on.’
‘Really?’ Jibreel was looking at him as though he’d just landed from another planet. ‘You haven’t heard of him?’
‘Not until my mum told me about him. Who the fuck is he?’
‘Okay.’ Jibreel dragged Harley into an empty classroom, closing the door firmly behind him. ‘If you want to borrow money and couldn’t get it from the bank, where would you go?’
Harley shrugged.
‘Come on, Harley. You can’t go to the bank, none of the payday lenders will look at you, what would you do?’
‘I’d ask you,’ Harley joked.
Jibreel scowled at him. ‘You’re not even trying.’
‘Okay. If I was desperate, I’d ask around and probably have to go to a loan shark.’
Jibreel nodded. ‘That’s what Gerry Montrose does. He lends money to people and breaks their legs if they can’t pay him back. And he has a group of “employees” who’re supposedly dealing dodgy fags, booze and probably a lot more. He’s not somebody you mess with.’
Harley thought about the abruptness with which Montrose had dismissed him. He shouldn’t have told the man his mother’s name; he might be putting her in danger. Oddly, the thought didn’t bother him as much as he’d expected. He was still furious about her deception, but could he honestly say he wouldn’t care if Montrose decided to confront his mum? Maybe.
‘And his blood is in your veins,’ Jibreel was saying. ‘You might turn out just like him. You know what they say, like father like son.’
Harley punched him in the face.
‘What the fuck?’ Jibreel gasped, doubling over and cupping his nose in his hands.
‘He’s not my dad! And it’s none of your business!’ Harley threw the door open and stomped off down the corridor, anger and confusion making him oblivious to the frightened stares of year seven students who pressed themselves against the banks of lockers as he approached. He stopped at the door to reception where he’d been intending to sign himself out and go home for the rest of the day. What was the point? If he went home, he’d just spend his time online trying to find out if what Jibreel had said was true and if he stayed in school, he’d just end up getting angry with somebody and getting kicked out.
Frustrated, Harley dug his phone out of his jeans pocket and tried Montrose Holdings again. This time the receptionist was surprisingly helpful, and he was put through to Gerry Montrose in less than a minute.
Harley took a deep breath, trying to organise his jumbled emotions.
‘My name’s Harley,’ he began. ‘Please don’t hang up this time. My mum says you’re my real father and your name’s on my birth certificate. I don’t want anything from you, I just want you to know that I exist. Can we meet up and talk? I’m not going to tell your wife or try to ruin your life or anything.’
He waited through a few seconds of silence, listening to the deep breathing at the other end of the line. Had he managed to make himself heard?
‘Lois Cartwright? She’s your mum?’ The voice was deep with northern vowels but very little trace of a Cumbrian accent.
‘She is. She only told me a few days ago when I needed my birth certificate. I don’t think she’d lie to me about something like this.’
‘And you’re eighteen?’
‘Born in September. The ninth,’ Harley confirmed.
Montrose sighed. ‘Well, it’s possible. I did know your mother quite well before you were born.’
So, it was true. A part of Harley still hadn’t been sure but Montrose’s admission that he’d known Lois seemed to suggest that she hadn’t been lying or covering up for a different relationship with a different man.
‘So, can we meet?’ Harley asked.
‘Not yet. I need to do some digging, check that you are who you say you are. There are a lot of people who’d like to see me humiliated or embarrassed. I’ll be in touch when I’m satisfied that you’re the real thing. Maybe I’ll send one of my employees round first, just to check.’
There was a veiled threat in his voice, but Harley wasn’t intimidated. ‘Send who you like,’ he had said. ‘I’ll be waiting.’

5
Two police officers were waiting in reception, neither of them seated. One wore the uniform of Cumbria Constabulary, the other one was in plain clothes. There was no sign of the deputy head.
‘Mr Cleaver?’ The one in a formal navy-blue suit turned to Cam as he approached the reception desk. Cam nodded and stared at the man’s outstretched hand, momentarily confused about what he was required to do. The man looked vaguely familiar – short dark hair shot through with grey, close-set blue eyes and a small patch of beard beneath full lips. If Cam had met him elsewhere, he might have assumed that he was a retired professional football player due to his muscular build and air of confidence.
‘DI Adam Pearson. I’ve already contacted the Chief Constable and there’s an armed response unit on the way. We need to establish exactly who’s where and start evacuating the school. What do you know so far?’
Cleaver gave the DI an abridged account of the past twenty minutes, the two gunmen who had released the students and mention of four in Donna’s note. He included his own response to the incident and waited while the man turned to his colleague and barked instructions for him to assess the risk around the humanities building.
‘So, Mr Cleaver,’ Pearson said, turning to Cam and fixing him with a steady gaze. ‘I assume you know exactly who is left in the humanities block?’
Cleaver nodded. ‘There’s just the one member of staff and her form.’
‘And you know exactly which students are in that form group and which are present today?’
Cam felt sweat starting to form along his hairline. He hadn’t checked. Hadn’t had time. The computerised registration