Like a bomb linked to a motion sensor, there would never be a good time to open that package. Every psychologist she’d been sent to had tried to break open that box and had failed. Despite their assurances that she needed to talk about the trauma in order to heal, she had resisted. Because they had all been wrong.

For a few years following Mikey’s death Kim had been passed around the mental health profession like a puzzle that could not be fathomed. Looking back, she often wondered if a set of steak knives had been on offer for the professional who could break open the surviving twin of the worst case of neglect the Black Country had ever seen.

She suspected there was no such prize for putting the child back together again.

Silence and aggression had been her best friends. Kim had turned into a difficult child and that had been her intention. She hadn’t wanted to be coddled and loved and understood. She hadn’t wanted to form bonds with foster parents, mock siblings or paid carers. She’d wanted to be left alone.

Until foster family number four.

Keith and Erica Spencer were a middle-aged couple when they started fostering. Kim had been their first foster child, and as it would turn out, their last.

They were both teachers who had consciously chosen to have no children. Instead they had spent every spare moment travelling the world on motorcycles. After the death of one of their friends they had decided it was time to curtail the constant travel but their passion for bikes had remained.

When she was placed with them at ten years of age Kim had donned her spikes, ready for the usual onslaught of long, probing chats and measured understanding.

She spent the first three months in her room, honing her rejection skills, waiting for their intervention. When it didn’t come, Kim found herself venturing downstairs for short periods of time, almost like an animal checking to see if it was safe to come out of hibernation. If either of them were surprised, they didn’t show it.

On one such foray she was mildly interested to find Keith restoring an old motorbike in the garage. Initially she sat at the furthest point, just watching. Without turning, Keith explained what he was doing. She never answered, but he carried on anyway.

Each day she moved closer towards his work area until eventually she was sitting right beside him, cross-legged. If Keith was in the garage, so was she.

Gradually Kim started asking questions about the mechanics of the machine, eager to understand how it all came together. Keith showed her diagrams and then demonstrated the practice.

Erica would often have to drag them from the garage to eat her latest gastronomic delight from the countless cookbooks that lined the kitchen shelves. She would roll her eyes fondly while Kim continued to ask questions as they ate to the gentle sound of Erica’s classical music collection.

Kim had been with the couple for about eighteen months when Keith turned to her and said, ‘Okay, you’ve watched me do it plenty of times, do you think you could fit that nut and washer into the exhaust housing?’

He moved out of her way and went to get drinks from the kitchen. With that first turn of the nut her passion was born.

Lost in the process, she continued to sort through the parts strewn across the garage floor, eventually fitting another couple of bits to the bike.

A soft chuckle caused her to turn. Both of them stood in the doorway watching her. Erica was teary.

Keith came and took his place beside her. ‘Yeah, I think you got the clever genes from me, sweetie,’ he said, nudging Kim sideways.

And although she knew it to be impossible, the words had brought an ache to her throat as she had thought of how happy she and Mikey could have been had the fates been kinder.

Two weeks before her thirteenth birthday, her foster mother had brought a hot chocolate to her bedroom and simply placed it on her bedside cabinet. On her way out, Erica had paused at the door. Without turning, her hand had clutched the door handle.

‘Kim, you do know how much we love you, don't you?’

Kim had said nothing but had stared hard at Erica’s back.

‘We could not care more deeply if you were our biological child and we will never try and change you. We love you just the way you are, okay?’

Kim nodded as the words brought tears to her eyes. Without her knowledge this middle-aged couple had touched her heart and offered the first foundations of stability she had ever known.

Two days later, Keith and Erica were killed in a motorway pile-up.

Later she found out that they’d been on their way home from an appointment with a solicitor who specialised in adoption law.

Within an hour of the accident Kim was packed up and returned to the social care system like an unwanted package. There was no celebration, no fanfare upon her return. No acknowledgement of her three-year hiatus. A nod here and there and the latest spare bed.

Kim wiped away a tear that had escaped and travelled down her cheek. This was the problem with journeys to her past. Any happy memory led to tragedy and loss. The reason she didn’t visit all that often.

The aroma of the coffee pot called from the kitchen. She pushed herself to her feet and took her mug for a refill.

As she poured the liquid into the mug her eyes moved across the vast collection of cookery books that lined her kitchen shelves.

Suddenly the words that were twenty-one years too late escaped from between her lips.

‘Erica, I loved you too.’

Thirty-One

Nicola Adamson took a sip of Southern Comfort. Normally, she didn’t touch alcohol while she was working but tonight she could not shake the stiffness in her bones. Her joints had been fused together and her muscles injected with cement.

The atmosphere in the club had been electric. A group of Swiss bankers had landed, flush with excitement and cash. The music was thumping and the laughter was infectious. The rest of the girls were busy mingling with the patrons, their smiles genuine and open. All the signs dictated it would be an enjoyable night for all. It was the kind of atmosphere whereby her work required no effort at all. Usually.

Nicola knew she was struggling to throw off the argument with her sister. It had started over something so inconsequential she couldn’t even recall but had developed into a massive row that had stopped short of physical blows.

Beth had predictably used the guilt card, quoting what Nicola had and what Beth had not. Eventually Beth had left the flat in a fit of rage and had not returned before Nicola left for work.

Although Beth was an adult and perfectly able to take care of herself Nicola knew she was still the big sister; the protector. Despite the animosity between them she was worried and she couldn’t help it.

‘Hey, Nic, you okay?’

She jumped slightly. ‘I’m fine, Lou.’

The club owner was an ex-wrestler, which was not disguised by the shirt and suit he wore every night to work.

It was his venue and one he’d started from scratch. Lou had had a vision of an upmarket club where attractive ladies danced for the enjoyment of customers. He’d had three principles from day one and they applied to the employees as stringently as the patrons: no nudity, no touching and no disrespect.

For his employees there was a fourth rule; no drugs. He himself chose to oversee the implementation of the first three and a monthly drugs test took care of the fourth.

His principles formed his business plan and his mission statement and he always led by example. No girl that Nicola knew of had ever been made to feel uncomfortable in Lou’s presence.