They don’t see her because she’s too smart to get noticed. She knows how to dress and where to stand. She knows how to drift up through the sweating crowds, maybe sticking close to this woman who could be her mother, to that man who could be her father. She knows how to keep her face blank so it doesn’t seem as if she’s noticing that woman’s fat little purse or that man’s thick wallet bulging inside his jacket. She knows how to look serious and sensible, like a good child.
She is a good child, maybe.
She could be twelve, doesn’t know exactly how old she is, doesn’t know her real name either, or where she came from. They say she must come from up country but there’s no way of finding out for sure since she hasn’t got any family.
Baz is watching out for Demi now. She’s the eyes looking for trouble while he does the work, moving through the sea of slow people like an eel. He is so neat, so fast, so quick. See him now, close up to this man, that man, to that lady with the fat bag swinging on her skinny hip and he’s nothing more than a shadow. Blink and he’s gone. That’s Demi. Sometimes she thinks he must be a wisp of smoke not a boy.