Ishmael Toffee by Roger Smith Read Free Book Online Page A

told him about his garden job. Missus Appolis is her name. Merinda Appolis .
    Only place now Ishmael can think of taking this child. Tell the social worker what her daddy’s doing to her and let the woman keep the kid and sort it out. That’s his plan.
    “Ishmael, I’m thirsty,” the girly says.
    “I know, I’m sorry. Just wait a little bit, okay?”
    The kid nods and sits still. A good kid.
    “What are we going to do, Ishmael?”
    “There’s a lady across there gonna help us,” he says.
    “She won’t take me back to my daddy?”
    “No.”
    “Promise?”
    “I promise,” Ishmael says, seeing a uniformed man locking the front doors.
    The people still outside slope off into the dust, wandering toward the taxis and the trains.
    Ishmael stands and takes the girly’s hand. “Come.”
    He checks there’s nobody watching them (looking hard for cops) then he hurries across the road on his short legs, the kid jogging to keep up with him. Ishmael comes to the locked doors and bangs.
    “We’re closed,” a voice shouts from inside.
    “Emergency,” Ishmael says. “Emergency for Missus Appolis.”
    The door opens a crack and the uniformed man stares out. “What emergency?”
    Ishmael lifts the girly’s cap so the man can see the kid’s white face. Gets him opening the door.
    “What’s that whitey doing here?”
    “Call Missus Appolis.”
    The guard and a woman behind a desk—busy switching off her computer and gathering her purse—mutter and then the woman crosses and opens an office door, says something and after a while Missus Appolis comes out, all dollied up with her make-up and her high heels.
    “Yes?” she says.
    “I’m Ishmael Toffee,” he says.
    She’s looking at the girly. “What’s that boy doing here?”
    “Please, missus,” he says. “Can we talk inside?”
    The woman nods and lets them walk into her office.
    “This is a girly,” Ishmael says, lifting the cap off the child’s blonde hair.
    Missus Appolis checks out the kid, then nods.
    “She come from the house where I work in the garden.”
    The woman looks worried. “What are you doing here with her, Ishmael?”
    Ishmael puts a hand on the girly’s shoulder and says, “Her daddy’s doing things to her. Bad things. So I bring her here.”
    The social worker stares at him. “You’ve kidnapped this child?”
    “No, missus. I just bring her here. For help.”
    “You wait outside, Ishmael. Leave the child with me.”
    Ishmael’s heading to the door when he feels the girly gripping his hand, tight. “Don’t leave me, Ishmael.”
    The woman says, “Okay, take her with you then. Wait outside while I phone a doctor who handles these cases. Shut the door.”
    Ishmael nods. This is good. This is getting things sorted out.
    Holding the girly’s hand he leads her out. As he closes the door a train thunders by, rattling the window glass and the tea things on the desk.
    In the sudden silence when the train has passed he hears Missus Appolis talking loud from inside, still shouting over the noise. And he can clear as a bell hear it’s no doctor she’s talking to. It’s the cops. Telling them he is here with a stolen white child.
    Ishmael grabs the kid’s hand and hurries to the exit, just as Missus Appolis shouts something from her office. When the guard, a thin thing with pimples, tries to get in their way Ishmael knees him in the privates and he folds, sucking in his breath. Ishmael gets the door open and gripping the girly’s hand tight, hurries her out into the dust, the low sun leaving their shadows long and black on the sand.
    They run to a taxi rank, getting lost in the crowd. When Ishmael slows, the kid is panting and his heart goes out to her.
    “Ishmael, I think I’ll die if I don’t drink something,” the child says.
    They push through the people and Ishmael sees a KFC with a pointy roof, the red sign like a streak of blood in the darkening sky. He’s got no money, spent his last cents on the taxis.
    He sees a