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Indie Jankowski was… a curious child. She was constantly into everything and always asking questions. She climbed trees, ran around the school playground without a care in the world and wasn’t afraid to ask one million questions or speak her mind.
Her knees were always grazed and it wasn’t unusual for her dad to come and pick her up from school, only to be informed that she’d bumped her head or scraped herself somewhere else. Yes, the world was Indie’s playground, just like it should be for any ten year old. She loved being outside and had a natural intelligence about her, something that her Nana was very proud of.
This is why she pulled such a bitter face when her dad told her one morning that they couldn’t go outside for a while. It had been one morning, before Indie was due to be picked up for school by her friend’s mum.
“What do you mean ‘I can’t go?’” she’d asked with a pout that reminded Samuel Jankowski so much of Indie’s mother. He’d sighed and crouched down to her height, trying to hold onto any shred of patience he still possessed.
“I just mean it’s not safe for your old dad out there,” he’s replied, honestly. “There are some people who want to find me and… I’d rather they didn’t.”
Indie had nodded, her dark, curly hair in messy pigtails she’d put up herself. She understood, at least she thought she did. She had to help keep her dad safe
It was safe to say that Indie adored her dad, in the hero-worship sort of way most people adored their parents. Her dad was amazing! He helped her with her reading at home, they always played games together at home and they had chips from the fish and chip shop every Friday night.
Indie’s dad was pretty cool, at least in her eyes, and she knew that if he asked her to do something, it was important. She’d do anything to help him.
And so, she’d gone back into her bedroom, changed out of her scruffy uniform and into a pair of pyjamas that still fit… just about. She’s found a book to read. She’d stayed quiet, even when there was a horrid banging at the front door. She was helping. That’s what she told herself over and over.
By the second day, the air in the flat had taken on a heavy sort of stillness. The curtains stayed closed, and so did the windows. Her dad kept pacing, chewing the skin on his thumb until it bled, muttering things under his breath that didn’t make sense.
They played a few games—Snap, I Spy, one where he pretended the floor was lava and she had to hop between cushions. But it was half-hearted. She could tell he wasn’t really there.
She missed the outside. She missed her friends. She missed school, even the parts where she had to sit still and do maths.
“Can’t we just go for a little walk?” she’d asked once, hopeful. “Just to the park?”
“No,” he’d said, sharper than he meant to. Then he saw the sad look her face and softened a little. “I wish we could, squirt. I really do. But I need you to trust me right now. Things are… messy. Dangerous.”
“For you?”
“Yeah. For me. And I can’t protect you out there. Not right now.”
So she nodded, like she always did, because that was what good kids did when their dad asked them to be brave. But being brave was boring. And lonely.
On the third morning, she woke up to the sound of her stomach growling. Her dad was still sleeping on the sofa, his arm thrown over his face, mouth open slightly. He hadn’t shaved in days and looked like someone had pulled him out of the sea. His jacket was still on, almost as though he might have to run away to somewhere.
Indie sat up and rubbed her eyes. She padded quietly into the kitchen in her too-small pyjamas, looking around the flat like it might have magically filled itself with food overnight. Of course, it hadn’t. She opened the fridge. Nothing but a bottle of milk that smelled funny and half a stick of butter. The cupboards were no better. Some old cereal. One crushed packet of noodles. And—
There. A single tin of beans on the top shelf. Indie could cook beans - her dad had shown her how for when he was out with his friends in the evenings.
She dragged over the chair first, then carefully climbed onto the counter. The tin was just out of reach. She leaned up on her tiptoes, stretching. Just a bit more. Just a little—
Her foot slipped.
Time slowed as she fell backwards, arms flailing, and then…
CRACK.
Her head hit the tiled floor with a sickening thud, and for a moment, the world blinked out. Just white. Just nothing. Then the pain hit, hard and fast, a lightning bolt straight through her skull.
She screamed.
She screamed with everything she had in her, a sound so loud and full of terror that it dragged her dad out of sleep like a grenade had gone off.
“Indie?!”
He stumbled into the kitchen, half-awake, eyes wide and wild. She was curled on the floor, blood trickling from her forehead, her tiny body shaking.
“Oh my—Indie—baby, what—what did you do?” He dropped to his knees beside her, his hands trembling as he pressed the edge of his t-shirt to her head before grabbing the nearest tea towel. “Shhh, it’s okay, it’s okay, Daddy’s here.”
“I was—I just wanted the beans—I was hungry,” she whimpered.
“I know, I know, it’s okay.” His voice cracked. “I’ve got you. You’re okay.” But she wasn’t. The towel was turning red too fast. Her breathing was shallow. She was going pale. He looked down at his shirt—soaked with blood—and back up at her tiny face. That was when the panic set in.
“Shit. Shit, shit, shit.”
He scrambled up, pacing in a tight circle, running both hands through his hair.
“I have to—I have to think—I have to…”
“Daddy?”
Her voice was small now, barely more than a breath. He stopped. His hands dropped. His eyes flicked to the clock, to the front door, back to her.
Then he made the call.
“Yeah. I need an ambulance. My daughter. Head injury. She fell. She’s bleeding—please hurry.”
The operator asked questions, and he answered them, barely hearing his own voice. Then, when it was done, he knelt by her again. Smoothed her hair back. Kissed her forehead.
“You’re gonna be okay, Indie. I promise.”
She nodded weakly. “Are you coming with me?”
He hesitated. Just for a second. Then he stood up, walked into the living room, and pulled up the floorboard where he’d hidden the cash from his latest job. Indie watched him from the kitchen doorway, eyes fluttering.
“Daddy?”
He didn’t look back.
“I’m sorry, Inds,” he said, voice breaking. “I love you.”
The door closed behind him, quietly.
Indie cried. She cried and she cried and she cried. She cried for her dad. She cried because her head hurt. She cried because she was scared - what if no one came for her?
By the time the paramedics arrived, she had gone quiet. She was still conscious, just barely. Blood matted her curls, her cheeks were slick with tears. She had curled up on the floor, arms around herself like she could hold all the broken parts together.
“Hiya, can you hear me?” One of the paramedics knelt beside her, careful, gentle.
“We’re here to help, sweetheart. You’re gonna be okay.”
She blinked up at him, dazed.
“Where’s my dad?” she whispered. The paramedic looked at his partner. Said nothing for a moment too long.
“He’ll meet you there, alright?” he lied, kindly. “Let’s get you patched up first.”
They carried her out on a stretcher, strapping her in, wrapping her in a warm blanket. One of them brushed gently at her hair and winced.
“She’s riddled with lice,” he murmured. “Filthy, poor thing.”
“Thin, too,” the other said. “She’s what—ten? Looks seven.”
Indie didn’t hear them. Or maybe she did, but it didn’t matter. She was crying again, softly now, the way someone cries when they’ve run out of everything else.
“Daddy…” she whispered, over and over, even as the sirens blared and the city rushed past her window. “Please come back.”
But he didn’t.
Three hours later, Indie was sat on a hospital bed as a doctor told her she’d been very brave during her stitches. A woman called a social worker had arrived, all kind smiles and curious questions. She’d wanted to know about her dad. About what he was like at home. About how often Indie had a bath or was cooked a warm meal. How often her clothes were washed.
Then the police had turned up. They’d asked questions too, about her dad and the money he’d hidden in the floor… about the jobs he did. Indie didn’t really know the answers to those questions so she didn’t speak much. She hoped her dad would be proud of her.
In the end, the social worker lady (Indie was pretty sure her name was Helen) told her that she was going to be living with her Nana. Indie hadn’t minded that - her Nana lived quite far away but always gave her warm hugs when she came over.
Maybe things would turn out alright for her after all.
————
(Eleven Year Later)
Samuel had let her down… again.
She’d let him take what he needed.
Because he was her dad, and she still wanted him to tell her he was proud of her.
Indie stood in Jan’s kitchen, surrounded by chaos. There was mess everywhere… Samuel had absolutely wrecked the joint. She stood with her phone in her hands, fingers trembling as she tried to pluck the courage to call the police. Guilt washed over her in waves, and she blinked rapidly. This was literally all her fault, she had no business crying; she’d enabled her dad to steal from Jan. Jan, who had taken her in. Jan, who’d comforted her when she’d been at her worst. Jan, who didn’t deserve this. Not even close.
The front door creaking open broke her out of her thoughts and she looked up. Jan and Teddy had returned from Iain’s wedding, their smiles and laughter dying on their faces as they realised what had happened.
Both of them came into the kitchen, Teddy quickly turning on his heel and going to check the other rooms in the house. Indie closed her eyes, tears threatening to leak as he confirmed what she already knew: every room had been turned over. She looked at Jan, her heart breaking when she saw the look on her mentor’s face.
“Are you alright, love?” Jan asked. Of course she was still looking out for Indie. She wouldn’t, not if she new the truth. Indie didn’t deserve her care.
She didn’t say that though. She simply nodded, the tears beginning to fall. Jan would think it was the shock. Teddy would probably give her a hug. It wouldn’t stop the twisting sense of guilt that filled her to the brim. She felt sick and had to force herself not to double over, force herself not to empty her stomach onto the floor.
The last straw had been the look of horror on Jan’s face before she sprinted up the stairs in search of Gethin’s wedding ring. Indie clapped her hand over her mouth as the tears continued to fall but it was no good. She shook in an effort to stop herself from being heard; moving towards the sofa, she let her knees buckle as Teddy and Jan both came back in. The gaunt look on Jan’s face told her everything - the ring was gone. Of course, neither of them knew her tears were linked to her guilt so they sat with her on the sofa, wrapped their arms around her, around each other. The police would be there soon. Teddy told them it was going to be okay. Jan nodded, clearly trying to stay strong, but she was visibly shaken.
The police arrived not long after, a pair of uniformed officers with clipped voices and tired eyes, asking quiet questions and taking down notes on little flip pads. They walked through the rooms, muttering to each other. One of them took photos. The other gently asked all three of them if they’d seen anything, if she had any idea who might have done this.
“No,” she’d said, shaking her head slowly, voice hoarse from crying. “I—I don’t know.”
It wasn’t a lie, not exactly. She hadn’t seen him do it. She hadn’t seen him smash the glass or pull open the drawers or tip out the photo albums Jan had kept in such perfect order. She hadn’t seen him rip the house apart looking for something he could sell fast. But she knew.
Samuel Jankowski had always been like smoke—there one minute, gone the next, leaving nothing behind but damage and the smell of something burning. And still, still, she'd let him in. She’d ‘taken a walk around the block’ and let him take what he wanted. What he needed. She’d told herself he wouldn’t really take much. That maybe, just maybe he’d have the sense to leave anything that looked like it might hold sentimental value. Especially the things belonging to Jan, who’d given her a place to call home these past months. Surely Indie’s dad would understand all that Jan had done for her and be somewhat forgiving.
The police left late, after dusting the place and asking more questions. They gave Jan a card with a number to call, and a bag to pack some things. "We’ll put you up for the night," one of them said, kindly. "We don’t know if whoever did this might come back."
Indie didn’t argue. She couldn’t speak.
The hotel room was small, two twin beds and a television bolted to the wall. The air smelled like bleach and old carpet. Jan sat on the edge of one bed, slowly removing her earrings, her hands shaking as she placed them gently on the bedside table.
The room fell into silence as the lights were switched off. For a long time, nothing but the soft hum of traffic outside and the occasional creak of a pipe could be heard.
And then, so quietly that Indie almost wasn’t sure it was real, she heard Jan crying.
Not sobbing. Just soft, broken breaths that slipped out like she was trying not to make a sound.
Indie stared at the ceiling, eyes wide in the dark. Her own tears came again, silent and hot. She rolled onto her side, burying her face into the stiff hotel pillow, trying not to shake the bed as the sobs took her over.
What had she done?
All because she wanted her dad to be proud. She wanted to believe that maybe he’d changed after all.