one
I’m feeling cheerful and humming to myself as I round the corner. I just had a good lesson, I have the afternoon off, and the sun is shining for once. The humming fades away as my house comes into view.
The place looks the same as ever—same dirty bricks, peeling paintwork, and the red door that we’d painted in an attempt to jolly the house up but had only highlighted how shit the rest of the exterior looks. Tyler’s old car is still there. It’s been broken down so long that the weeds have grown around it. The new additions are the men coming out of the house carrying furniture.
I stop dead in my tracks. Unease flares brightly as one of the men tosses the table he’s carrying onto a pile on the street. It’s a careless, dismissive motion, and the cheap wood splinters into pieces.What the fuck?
I start to run, my rucksack banging painfully into my shoulders. The men glance up at the sound of my hurried steps. They look like they’ve sprung from a mould for thugs—thickset, no necks, and cold eyes.
“What’s going on?” I gasp, coming to a stop.
As one, they all look to another man just coming out of the front door. He has the unmistakable air of being in charge. He’s tall, with close-cropped hair and an expensive suit. He pauses on the doorstep, looking at us before removing his sunglasses. There’s no expression on his face and no warmth in his eyes.
“Who are you?” he says.
I gape at him. “Who am I? More to the point, who areyou?”
His eyes move over me, itemising my faded jeans, old pink Kylie concert T-shirt, dusty Vans, and battered rucksack. Amusement flares on his face, but rather than relaxing me, I tense more. It’s like seeing a shark grin and show its teeth just before it eats you.
“Ah, you must be Wes. Tyler told me all about you.”
I blink. “You know my brother?”
A smile plays over his lips. “You could say that, Wes.”
“I just did.”
The rude comment seems to amuse him even more. “He never warned me you were such a mouthy little fucker, though,” he says.
My anxiety grows. “What’s going on?” I look around and fear seers through me. “Where’s Cath?”
“In the house.” He pauses. “For the moment.”
I step forward, my temper flaring. “What the fuck doesthatmean?” I look at his stern face. “Have you hurt her?” I demand.
“No,” he says, and the simple truth in his voice stays me. “She’s just getting her stuff together.”
“Why?” Silence falls until I shift awkwardly. “What’s going on?” I ask again. “If you know my brother so well, where is he?”
He steps onto the pavement, and I can’t help my instinctive move backwards. Humiliation rushes through me at the amusement in his eyes, but there’s something cold about him, something very frightening despite his nice suit and pleasant tone.
“My name is Mr Grey. I work for Bill Jackson,” he says.
My brain struggles with the surname. It sounds familiar somehow. Realisation dawns. “The bookie?”
“Amongst other things, yes.”
I remember talk about the “other things”—whispers about dark things. And now I’m terrified. “What’s that got to do with us? Why are you in my house?”
“Yourhouse?”
I lick my lips. “Well, Tyler’s house,” I admit.
“Yes, that’s what he said.”
The fear is a tight, tangled knot in my stomach. “Where is he?”
“Don’t worry about it, Wes.”
