Chapter One
Friday night

The sudden downpour had caught her unaware, and the thin jacket had offered little protection against the torrent that was still falling. She could feel the wetness seeping into her trousers. Rivulets trickled down the back of her neck. The spreading puddles reflected the orange of the streetlights as this damp November evening waited for the weekend to begin. Raucous laughter, causing her to start, cut through the drone of late rush hour traffic as six men in business suits tumbled, laughing, out of the nearby pub.She had walked more or less at random, responding to some half-forgotten sense of direction. Her wanderings had brought her, unconsciously, to her old haunts.
How long had she been walking? Where had she gone? She looked at her watch. An hour and a half had passed since she had left the functional but impersonal hotel room near the train station. She took in her surroundings, familiar, but different. The pub across the road now had a trendy Irish name and sandwich bars for the office workers had sprung up everywhere.
She was standing at the bottom of the stone flight of steps, worn into small hollows by the thousands of feet that had over the centuries, used this shortcut towards the narrow streets that lay beyond. Something took hold of her and she felt the pull of the climb, with the lure of amber nectar at the top. How many times had she used those steps in the past, walking the short distance from the bus stop to the bar every weekend for what seemed like an eternity.
She shook her head, not wanting to dwell on the past. She was in the old part of the city, her home, but it had been over ten years since she had moved away. How that date was etched into her brain, with all the pain and tears that went with it. The fifteenth of March, beware the Ides of March so the saying went.
How she wished now she had taken heed then?
Taking a deep breath Jocelyn bounded up the stairs two at a time and then in ones as her lungs cried out for relief. She reached the top and grabbed hold of the handrail, taking in a lungful of air, whilst she let her pulse rate and breathing return to normal.
“Got any change for a cuppa please, my love.”
Jocelyn looked around, wondering where the voice had come from. The rich burr of the Bristol accent stirred up memories, how she had missed it.
“Got any change please,” the voice asked again.
Jocelyn looked towards a bundle of rags huddled between the telephone box and the wall. A young boyish looking face peered at her, pleading. The hair was plastered to the face and clean streaks of water tumbled down the gaunt cheeks.
Jocelyn felt herself drawn to the face and she felt herself held by a mesmerizing effect. The eyes were bright, having not yet lost their hope through the despair of living on the streets. Jocelyn yearned that they would not soon enter some existence unimaginable. This young girl looked no more than sixteen, too young to be out on the streets alone.
The gaze still pleaded and Jocelyn wondered what had brought her to be living like this and what kind of life this youngster had suffered. Were they there through choice? Were they a runaway? Had they come to seek solace in the anonymity of the big city, or was there some other reason? The bundle of rags did not look like any drugs were involved. Not yet. Feeling sorry, and thinking there but the greater good goes I, she pulled out a twenty from her pocket and passed it over. “Go inside, get yourself something to eat and drink and dry off.”
Thanking Jocelyn profusely, the small bundle of rags grabbed the money, tucked it inside the clothing, and furtively looked around, as though checking to make sure that no one was watching, ready to follow, and slunk off into the night. Jocelyn stepped out into the street and looked around. Recognizable buildings made her smile, making her realize that her memories weren’t all bad. The old fish market appeared to be a stylish bar and some brave souls sat under the heated umbrellas, offering scant protection against the weather, cigarette smoke rising nonchalantly into the evening air. The covered market waited, quiet, anticipating the start of a new day tomorrow. Some of the independent shop signs had changed, along with the passing of time.
She then looked across at the pub. It had been given a lick of paint, but the familiar statue of the three graces, from which the pub got its name, stood proud in the high alcove, surveying all who came to drink inside. Jocelyn wondered whether she would still feel welcomed. She noticed one of the two doors were closed forcing the new entrants to pass past the dark suited man and woman standing on guard, ready for all that a Friday night in the centre of town could bring.
Jocelyn strode purposely towards the door.