On the dressing table gleams a photo of him and Mum. Even in the picture Mum looks lost and half-dead. Long before the overdose that finished her. What were you thinking, Mum? By that stage, of course, Mum wasn’t thinking much at all. The picture is filmed with dust. Walsh’s attempt to gild the lily, to show what a good, upstanding family man he is. Was. Yeah. Right.
Vera stretches out on the floor, squints under the bed, brushes balls of fluff aside. Dust catches at the back of the throat. A plastic carrier bag, so full it catches on the bed’s underside and she struggles to draw it out. God, don’t let it rip. She carries it through to her room, though she feels fouled by having it there. She doesn’t look at the contents; she knows what they are. Pictures of men with children. Little boys and little girls. But mostly boys; they’re what Walsh liked best. She’s in some of them. But her brother’s in more.
Hide it. She pushes the bag into the wardrobe, just for now.
Now for the rest. She needs to get it; she needs to get it all.
She needs to get her brother out of this, free and clear, with none of the shit sticking to him. Otherwise it’s the care homes, and she knows about those. Walsh used to boast about his mates in them.
You think you’ve got it rough here, you little tart? Or that precious lickle baby brother of yours?
Oh, they’d have fun with him in places like that. Ever seen those fish on the telly? Piranhas? He’d be like a piece of meat thrown in a tank of them. They’d tear him to bits. Specially if anyone found out, if you told anyone. They’d take him into care. And I’d make bloody sure some of my mates got to hear about him. Give him some
special
treatment. So keep... your mouth... shut
.
Walsh might be dead now, but she was still buggered if she was letting her brother go into a place like that. So no bastard was going to know. Not while she had breath.
A
ND IT’S COLD
in the basement now, so cold Alan can see his breath, and not just because the door’s opened and let the October wind come whistling through. It’s cold in the basement, colder than any October ought to be as the door clicks shut behind the Shrike. He’s brought this cold with him.
He comes forward, keeps to the shadows. Only a dim twilit murk pervades the gloom; that and the circles of overlapping light from the lanterns Yolly and Mr Fitton have put down to show off the merchandise to its best advantage. His polished black leather shoes tap and click on the floor; they gleam in the dark. So do the Shrike’s jam-jar specs and the smooth dome of his head.
That’s all Alan sees of the Shrike’s face, and all he wants to see. Nobody sees the Shrike’s face, not full-on, and lives to tell of it. They’ve all heard of the Shrike, the little boys and girls in Daddy Adrian’s special play-group. They’ve all heard of the Shrike. He’s like Daddy Adrian or Mr Fitton, or Father Joseph or the Policeman; he likes doing things to children, to little boys and girls. Except that the things he does are different. Worse. He can only do them to you once, and all that’s left are bones. Now and again, he’ll come along, and he’ll place an order with Daddy Adrian, like he was ordering from a take-away. Because that’s what this is to him; a place for feeding.
Alan doesn’t look at the Shrike’s face, doesn’t want to see. All he can hear is the clicking and tapping as the Shrike walks around the four naked boys, pausing when he gets to Alan. The tips of two black polished leather shoes are just inches away from him, in the thin light before him on the floor.
Alan shakes. He thinks he’s going to pee himself, right there in front of everybody. There’ll be no hiding it. It shouldn’t matter now, not now he’s going to die, but somehow it does.
“What,” a voice demands, “is this?” The voice is thin and cold; it isn’t Yolly’s or Mr Fitton’s. Yolly’s voice is bendy wood and Mr Fitton’s broken stone. This voice is cold steel; a honed, sharp blade that’ll have your head off in a blinking.
“I... I don’t... how do you mean, sir?” Mr Fitton asks. He sounds scared. Now he knows what it’s like.
“This.” A shadow plays across the black shoes; a hand, pointing. “This thing.”
“It’s... well, it’s a boy, sir.”
“Are you making fun of me, Mr Fitton?”
“No! No, sir.”
“Then I ask again: what is this thing?” When Mr Fitton doesn’t answer, the Shrike speaks again. “This is not a boy. Puberty has set in. Too tough, too stringy; no good to me. You know this. Walsh knows it. Why does he offer me this?”
“I think... I think he wanted rid of it, sir.”
“Two birds, one stone. I see. And to conserve some of the fresher young meat for himself. Well, I think not. I think not. Tell Walsh I am not pleased with this.”
Click, tap, click.
The shoes move away from him. Alan fights to keep his bladder under control. “Hm,” he hears the Shrike say. Grudging approval. “These others, however. They are plump and tender.”
Tap, click, tap.
There’s a brief, whimpering gasp from Mark, muffled by the gag. “And tight,” the Shrike murmurs.
Mark whimpers again. Alan’s eyes catch the glint of a bald head, then the flash of spectacle lenses as the Shrike looks up. “Do not look at me,” the Shrike says. Alan has already looked away. A cuff stings the back of his head. “That’s right,” Mr Fitton says, “keep your eyes front, you little shit.” But Alan can hear the fright in his voice. He’s scared of the Shrike as well.
“Hm,” says the Shrike. “Very well. I’ll take these three. You know where to bring them. The old farmhouse off Dunwich Lane. Eight o’clock tonight.” He moves away from the circle of light; Alan catches the flash of his spectacle lenses once again. “That one is yours. Tell Walsh to dispose of his own rubbish and not to palm it off on me.”
“OK,” says Mr Fitton. Then, a moment later: “What about the money?”
“Cash on delivery, Mr Fitton. Cash on delivery.”
Click, tap, click
, fading as the Shrike walks away. “Eight o’clock, Mr Fitton. Sharp.”
The door clicks shut. Alan sees his white breath fade to nothing in the air. Still cold, but not as cold.
“So what now?” Yolly asks. Meaning him, Alan knows.
T
HE COAL CELLAR
was the worst. Not because of having to root through the black, gritty coal, or even because of the dark. The dark was the least of Vera’s worries. The worry was being seen, because you couldn’t get out into the backyard without going through the kitchen, and if she was seen –
well, why didn’t you see your stepdad’s body, girl, and why didn’t you call 999?
But she had to get all the stuff together. And now she has.
She strips off again, stuffing the old clothes into a carrier bag and shoving them into the bottom drawer. Then into the bathroom. Coal dust on her face and hands. She washes, thorough but fast, scrubs under her nails to get the dirt out. God, she wants a bath or a shower but she daren’t. Her brother – they could be bringing her brother back at any moment. Christ, he should be back by now; where
is
he? She needs to call the ambulance
now
, but she can’t without him there. Where is he?
M
R
F
ITTON’S VAN
grumbles through Kempforth, heading home. Alan’s home. Mr Fitton grumbling to himself in the driver’s seat, a low constant burble. Yolly’s sat beside him.
Yolly. Alan knows he owes his life to Yolly. Mr Fitton wanted to kill him then and there once the Shrike had gone, butcher him like a pig. It was Yolly who wheedled and cajoled him. “You heard what he said, Mr Fitton. Let Mr Walsh get rid of him if he wants him got rid of. If you do it, it’s murder and you’ll go to prison for it if they catch you.”
Mr Fitton’s little black pig eyes had darted to and fro in the dark of the cellar. Johnny, Mark and Sam had all knelt there, silent and ignored. They weren’t relevant now; their fate had been decided. Cattle at the market, picked for the slaughterhouse. Their trapped, weeping eyes had darted to meet Alan’s, envying him his luck. Begging him to help them. But they were the Shrike’s now. They were good as dead.
“Alright,” said Mr Fitton. “We’ll tek him back. Let Walsh make his mind up what to do with him. Let’s not soil our hands.”
As if they weren’t killers already, selling kids to the Shrike.
“But first,” Mr Fitton stepped forward, unbuckling his belt, “we’re going to have some fun. Go get the van.”
And he pushed Alan face-down on the floor.
Yolly gentled Alan afterwards, stroking his hair, cuddling him. Kissing his cheeks. Didn’t try anything on. He didn’t look at the other kids, though. The ones he could do nothing for. He’d whispered kind words to Alan until Mr Fitton banged on the door and shouted him to come on, time’s up.
And now they were in the van, him and Yolly and Mr Fitton, and Johnny Mark and Sam are back in the cellar under the old abandoned mill, waiting alone. Just left there alone in the dark. What if someone finds them? Ah, but they won’t; they never do. Daddy Adrian has the Policeman on his side. They’ve never seen his face; only Daddy Adrian knows who he is. He always wears a mask when he comes for the children. But they know he’s a copper, and he protects Daddy Adrian and the rest.
“Here we are,” says Mr Fitton, and turns down Shackleton Street.
V
ERA’S PSYCHED HERSELF
up to make herself cry and has finally dialled 999 when she sees the headlights flare in the near-dark at the top of Shackleton Street. She peeps through a gap in the curtains and sees they’re big and widely-spaced, sees it’s the butcher’s van. Fitton’s.
Fuck, not now
.
“Which service?”
Get it done, lass. “Ambulance.”
She’s sobbing and she’s shaking as the van slows to a halt a few yards from their door, idling, engine grumbling. Any minute... any minute now...
They tell her the ambulance is on its way as she sees the van door open and close and a big lumbering bulk slide out to sway on the road. Fitton rolls up the short path to the door. She lets the curtain fall back into place, gabbles something into the phone and hangs up. Oh Christ what did she say? Did she say something wrong, did she hang up the phone too soon? Will they suspect that–
Fitton bangs on the door. She yelps. Then takes breaths. Long, slow.
Now be wise, Vera; now be calm. For your sake and for Alan’s
. Walsh is dead, he’ll never hurt Alan again, but they’re not out of the woods by a long chalk yet.
Fitton bangs again on the door, harder. Brutal. Like a boxer. Always like he’s attacking something. Maybe he was a victim once, like them. Prey. Maybe that’s the rage he carries. And maybe not. She doesn’t care. Whatever he was, he’s this now.
She goes to the door and opens it a crack. Fitton tries to push through; it catches on the chain. “Where’s Adrian?”
Walsh.
Daddy Adrian
, Alan calls him. “Hang on,” she says, and shuts the door. How long will the ambulance take? There’s not much time; can’t be. She takes off the chain, opens it and steps back smartish as Fitton barges through, ugly brutal hog-faced barrel of a man that he is. “Where is he?”
Vera shuts the door behind him. “Kitchen.”
“Adrian.” Fitton’s already marching forward. Vera walks slowly after him, cat-footed. In the pocket of her jeans there is a knife. She puts her hand on it, ready. “Adria–”
Fitton’s voice stops dead as he goes through the kitchen door. Vera stops behind him. Far enough away to have some warning if he comes at her. She slips the knife free, holds it against the back of her thigh.
“He’s dead,” she says. Fitton turns to look at her, his eyes black slits. “And I’ve got his stuff. His porn. All his filthy magazines.” She puts her free hand in the other pocket, draws a torn, much-folded page, flicks it at him. It falls at his feet. He doesn’t pick it up. “Look at it.”
Fitton crouches. His trousers creak and for a moment she thinks they’ll split, but they don’t. Good thing too; she’d not be able to keep from laughing, and that might be all it takes to touch things off. Fitton’s eyes don’t waver from hers as his fingers grub about on the worn carpet, or when he stands with the folded scrap of glossy paper in his hands. He doesn’t look away from her until it’s unfolded. Only then. His face goes still, pale, then red.
“Good likeness,” she says. “No doubting that it’s you, or what you’re doing.” Fitton’s thick fat sausagey fingers clench and unclench at his sides. The page falls to the floor. His eyes are back on hers and do not waver. She might have to use the knife. “Don’t do anything stupid,” she says. “I’ve hid the stash. Safe. Owt happens to me and it’ll be found. And then everyone’ll know you bastards for what you are.”
Fitton studies her. His thick lips twist. “Bollocks.” She grips the knife tighter. “You’ve not had time.”
“Really? You wanna bet? He’s been dead a while. Anyone asks me, I only just found him. Been upstairs. Playing me cassettes. Not been feeling great. On the blob, you know?” Fitton looks ill at the mention. “But really? I’ve had bags of time, Mr Fitton. Enough that you’ll not find it here.”
“What do you want?”
“My brother. Where is he?”
“In the van.”
“Get out there and send him in. After that there’s only one thing I want off you, and you give me it and I’ll tell you where I put his stuff.”
Fitton moves towards her, and despite the knife she moves back. But he’s only going for the door. “I’ll send him in,” he says. “What’s t’other thing you want?”
“Money.”
“Of course.”
“Not like that. One payment. A one-off. I don’t want anything more of yours than I can help. Just enough to get out of here and never have to look at your face or this shithole town again.”
Fitton’s face tightens. “I could make you tell me. I’ve got your brother.”
“Hurt him and I’ll have the law on you and take my chances. Just be sensible, Mr Fitton. Do this and we go our way, you go yours. You carry on doing what you do and that’s us done.”
Fitton looks at her. Sweat trickles down her back. How much time now? “Alright,” he says at last. “But you try to fuck me over–”
“I won’t.”
“And even if I’m in the clink I’ll find a way to get you. Wherever you are.”