Don't Tell Anyone (Photo 7)

She shoots death stares at me all the way to the police station. She's trying to frighten me, I know, but so far, her attempts have been futile. After a couple of times, the whole 'daunting factor' of getting arrested sort of wore off.

"Sit" she snaps, pointing with one shockingly long fingernail at an unoccupied chair at the far end of the room.

I decide to obey, and sit.

"I'll be back in a minute. Don't move." After shooting me another hostile glance, she scurries off, her obviously-expensive platinum blonde hair bobbing underneath her policewoman helmet.

I slouch in my seat and examine the waiting room. I stare at the silver-haired woman crying, the snivelling little kid, the skeevy-looking girl in the corner whose boots seem to cover more skin than her actual clothes. I gaze at the assortment of papers tacked up on the walls-anti-drug leaflets, nicotine patch advertisements, missing posters.

Missing posters.

His poster is there.

Of course his poster is there.

His poster is everywhere-pinned onto trees, sellotaped onto fences. It's like a sharp thorn in my side that I can't get away from.

Not a day goes by when I don't see that picture. It eyes me when I walk down the road, it watches me from the side of milk cartons.

His face. Her face.

The faces of Cameron ans Riana Springer.

Cameron and Riana.

My best friend. And his daughter.

Everytime I see that picture, my mind drifts back to the day I last saw him.

I see Cameron, dragging along a heavy-looking rucksack with one arm; the other is taken up by Riana. She's asleep, oblivious of the racket around her. She looks so peaceful. She doesn't deserve to be here. She doesn't deserve any of this. She needs to be in the care of a loving family that have no eyes for anyone other than her. Not with a runaway druggie with less than a year to live. She won't last. She'll be gone within two months.

Cam's voice cuts through my thoughts. It's low and urgent. I strain my ears to hear what he's saying.

"Remember, Dave. Don't tell anyone. Please."

The sharp sound of heels on laminate flooring snap me out of my daydream.

It's a woman-a different one this time.

She wears spike-heeled stilettos and a powdery grey suit. He nose is wrinkled and her lips are pursed. She looks as if she'd just been force-fed a lemon. She gives me a steely glance and hands me my wallet and my mobile. No dope, though. Hardly surprising.

"Come" she says in a bitter tone, at the exact same time as my mobile went off. The ring tone seemed sickeningly cheerful against the dry, drab atmosphere of the station.

I look at the lady. She raises her eyebrows.

I look down at the caller ID.

Cameron.

I look at her again. She says nothing; just blinks.

I take this as permission to answer.

"Cam, this really isn't-" I start.

"Dave? Dave?" His voice is anxious, troubled. "Dave, listen. I need your help."

And that's when all hell breaks loose.