Friday December 24th 2004, 10:37a.m.
James knew exactly what he'd see as he turned the corner into Holloway Villas: six-storey housing blocks, built around a courtyard, with a vandalised playground in the centre and the stench of rubbish as you walked past by the giant steel bins.
The only thing James didn't recognise was the graffiti. PIG41 was the new spray can supremo on James' old estate. His bright red tag adorned walls, doors, billboards and even the pavement itself.
'You OK, James?' Bruce asked as the two boys walked side by side.
'Yeah,' James said, swallowing a lump in his throat.
But he wasn't OK. Memories of the night when his mother died fourteen months earlier still had the power to sting.
Bruce handed James a tissue. 'It's a bit crumpled, but there's no snot on it.'
'Ta,' James said, feeling a little embarrassed as he took it and rubbed his eyes. 'I don't know ... I mean ... I just remembered the ambulance men carrying my mum out and Lauren holding my wrist. It all came flooding back.'
'Nothing to be ashamed of,' Bruce said. 'Nobody's gonna get over their mum dying in any sort of hurry.'
The boys headed up a concrete staircase. A bitter gust of wind hit them as they stepped out on to the second floor balcony. James' sadness was replaced by nostalgia as he remembered his mum yelling down off the balcony with a finger drumming against the face of her watch.
'Eight o'clock, James. You'll catch hell if I have to come down there and get you.'
James stopped when he reached the living-room window of his old flat and glanced inside.
'Looks like a young couple moved in,' he said as he peered in. 'It's all been done up. Wood floors and that.'
Bruce nodded. 'Looks pretty smart.'
'It does,' James said. 'But I wouldn't have paid two hundred and twenty grand to live there.'
'How much!' Bruce gasped.
James grinned. 'Property prices round here are insane. Mum owned the flat and her mortgage was paid off by the life insurance when she died. Me and Lauren get to share the loot when we leave CHERUB.'
'You're jammy,' Bruce said. 'My parents died when I was a baby and they owed three grand on their Barclaycard.'
James stepped away from the window and rang the bell of a flat six doors further along the balcony. He waited half a minute, but there was no answer.
'We came all this way and the geezer's out,' Bruce spluttered angrily. 'I'm gonna kick his arse ...'
'Keep your wig on,' James grinned. 'This isn't Alan's place. My old mate Sam lives here. I was just gonna say hi, but it looks like he's out. Alan lives in the one up the end; he'll be waiting for me.'
When the door of Alan's flat opened, James got engulfed in the arms of a grubby-looking man with a mass of black body hair down his arms and a giant beer gut.
'Hey, Alan,' James grinned, pleased to be reacquainted with a friend, but slightly less pleased at being hugged into a white vest that smelled of three-tins-for-a-pound body spray from Holloway market.
'You look good,' Alan gasped. 'Quite a handsome young man now. You've got taller and thinned out. Come inside. Where's the little lady?'
'Lauren couldn't come. She's back at our foster home with a stinking cold,' James lied. 'This is my mate, Bruce. He's gonna help me carry all the gear home.'
