Adam puffed his cigarette and tapped away the tip of ash. “So what we gonna do?”
The immortal question. The amusement of watching the street had gone along with the players, who had retired into their homes. Penny Crescent failed to satisfy a couple of party boys.
He smoked, thought about the problem, and smoked some more.
“We could go and see Smithy,” suggested Jake.
Adam wrinkled his nose. “Why the hell would we want to see that loser?”
“He’s got new gear.”
Adam inhaled another quick drag of the cigarette and rolled it between his fingers. Smithy might be a real nerd, with body odour so bad you had to hold your breath, but new gear?
“How much he sellin’ at?”
“Dunno.”
Adam jumped from the wall; his designer trainers, both displaying a distinct logo, hit the pavement with a smack.
“Where you going?”
“The garage,” Adam replied, smoking the last of his cigarette and pitching the stub into the road.
“Already?” Jake swept his fringe out of his eyes and also hopped from the wall. He rubbed his buttocks through his black jeans.
“I know we got some, but he always has good stuff,” said Adam. “He’s sure to give me a good deal.”
“How come?”
“He’s a mate.”
“A mate…yeah, right…”
The curtains of the house opposite fluttered, and Adam nodded across the road. Jake turned.
Anne Harper opened the curtains a fraction and quickly glanced up and down the street.
“Sorry, Anne,” Jake chuckled. “Frank ain’t home yet. Want us to come over and keep you company?”
“That would be sweet. Horny little bitch.”
“Bet she goes like the clappers. Eh?”
Adam nodded. “I’d rip her in two.”
“Yeah, until Frank caught you, then he’d rip you in two!”
Jake burst out laughing and punched his brother in the shoulder.
“Bullshit,” said Adam. “I could take him. He’s only a physics teacher for fuck’s sake!”
“Liar. Prove it.”
Adam stared at his twin. “What?”
“I said, prove it. Go over there, shag his wife and wait for him to get home. See how hard you are then, shall we?”
“You’re joking, right?”
Breaking into that the old witch McGuire’s house for pot money was one thing, but was his brother suggesting he forced himself on Anne? Raped even? No, definitely not worth it.
Although he could picture it: her pleads, her struggle, the first touch…
“Yeah,” Jake said, and laughed. “I’m joking.”
“Good. You know we’re being kept under surveillance after the whole burglary thing.”
Adam glared at the McGuire house, memories of the break in running past his eyes like scenes from Crimewatch.
That convertible looks pretty slick. Alloy wheels, metallic blue finish…
He quickly dismissed the idea. Stealing a car from the house they’d burgled only weeks before felt reckless, even for them.
“Fine then,” he said. “We’ll go to Smithy’s, but on two conditions.”
“What are they?”
“You pay, and I drive.”
“Fuck off!”
“Take it or leave it, bro.”
Jake chewed his lip. “I don’t have much cash left, but if his gear’s as good as you think…fine. Get the bike.”
Adam grinned. “That’s more like it.”
With a final fleeting glance at Anne over at the Harper house, Adam strode through the open gate at the top of the drive.
The gate hung in disrepair, rust eating away the metal bars between patches of aging green paint. Their mother had long ago given up asking the brothers to do the simple chore of repainting it. Adam failed to remember the last time she’d asked either of them to do anything.
Adam recalled the hot summer day their father had originally painted the gate. He and Jake had only been four, maybe five years old, kicking a fly away plastic football around the small lawn. Their father had sat on the baking driveway armed with a tin of paint, a small brush and a handkerchief for mopping his sweaty brow. He painted in long and always downward strokes, not allowing a single drop of paint to be wasted. Jake had kicked the ball straight at the tin, and it tipped and spilled paint in a spreading puddle on the driveway. Their father had erupted. After a good smacking, he’d sent them to their rooms for the rest of the day.
Dad was such a stickler for order…and punishment.
Adam glanced at the long faded patch of green on the flagstones.
All that stress over us didn’t help your heart, did it Dad? Jesus, how many years is it now? Ten? Something like that.
He walked the rest of the way down the drive, stomping the weeds growing in abundance in the cracks and gaps.
The garage stood at the side of the overgrown back garden. The paint, once so bright and flawless over a decade ago, had faded and peeled. Large chunks had flaked away with constant weathering, revealing the rotting wood underneath. The small windows in the double doors were covered in accumulated grime, allowing a tiny amount of light through. The roof, made of corrugated sheet metal, had done a good job of keeping out the rain thus far, but had paid a heavy price for its lengthy battle with the elements. The thick screws that held it in place were now mere clumps of rust. Moss and lichens of various shades of green and yellow gathered in the nooks and crannies where rain water had accumulated.
For all its faults, the garage had become a special place for Adam and Jake. It was theirs, a den, a sanctuary and sometimes, a hideout. Their mother might have a fragile grip on the control of the house, but the twins had established the garage as their own kingdom.
Adam swung one of the doors wide open and the welcoming smells drifted out: cigarette smoke, stale beer, oil and old joint stubs.
The scent of home.
He didn’t bother to turn on the light. The motorbike stood a few feet away.
Jake had bought the small bike from a bloke down the King’s Crown pub, a steal at three hundred pounds. With 125cc they could really tear up the road.
Now comes the hard part.
He hoped his mother wasn’t in the kitchen. He had neither the mood nor the time for a lecture…especially one about the bike.
Adam wheeled it outside, propped it against the fence and dashed back to close the garage. Returning, he grabbed the handlebars and pushed the bike up the drive, breaking into a run. At the front gate, he sighed, having been spared from his nagging mother.
“She see you?” asked Jake, sparking up a fresh cigarette.
“No, I don’t think so.” He pointed at the smoking white stick poking out between his brother’s lips. “Where the fuck did you get that? You been holding out on me?”
“I found it.”
“When?”
“Just then.”
“I fucking bet you did. Bet you’ve got a full deck in that stupid coat.”
Jake frowned. “I don’t know how you can stand there in a white tracksuit and call my coat stupid. I mean, is there a part of you that doesn’t have a logo? Your prick, for example, or is that sponsored by Nike?”
“Fuck you!”
“No, bro. Fuck you! You’re a walkin’ advert.”
Adam cocked his leg over the bike and settled into its seat.
“I don’t have time for this, oh prince of darkness. We going or what?”
Jake drew from his cigarette and pitched it into the road. “Let’s go.” He climbed onto the back of the bike and grabbed his brother by the shoulders.
Adam kick started the engine, and it roared with high pitched revs. He looked to the window of the Harper house, convinced the noise would attract that cock-tease Anne to the glass.
“Come on,” shouted Jake over the noise of the chugging engine. “Get moving already!”
With some reluctance, Adam pushed away from the pavem
ent and steered onto the road.
“Punch it, you pussy!” hollered Jake into his brother’s ear.
Adam obediently revved the engine once more, and the bike shot forwards in a fresh burst of speed. Without indicating or checking for traffic, he swerved around the corner and out onto the main road.
2.
Jenny Dean, sitting in the darkened kitchen, watched her son sneak into the garage and take the bike. She remained at the table, not bothering to apprehend him. She knew she’d be met with a blank stare, or even worse, a sneer. Both boys had developed quite the teenage rebel attitude and strongly believed that at eighteen, they knew better than their old mum.
Since the incident at Eleanor McGuire’s house, it had grown even harder to keep track of their whereabouts. They were always one step ahead of her, and the law.
She heard the bike roar into life.
Jenny rested her head against her hands and massaged her throbbing temples. Letters and statements littered the table. In the poor light, reading the small print on the sheets of paper had given her a migraine. But the dark comforted her. Light revealed her problems: the messy kitchen, her chubby hands and sagging chest, the never ending list of chores for her to do. Worst of all, it would illuminate the collection of bills.
Damn you, Harold…
In front of Jenny, next to her discarded gold rimmed spectacles on the table top, lay the pile of statements covering electricity, gas and water. All three demanded immediate payment. Jenny hoped the gas bill might be easier to pay next time around, with winter finally being over. The electricity too should be substantially less. Her non-essential appliances had all been sold to recover a little extra cash.
Yet the boys’ television, stereo and Xbox remained.
At least there’s no phone bill this time. One of the benefits of it being cut off.
Jenny stared at the bills, waiting for the solution to reveal itself. Her headache pounded harder, entering a whole new plateau of aggravating pain. Unable to ignore it any longer, Jenny lifted her large frame from the wooden chair, which creaked in relief. She plodded over to the sink and searched for a clean glass. After a few seconds of poking in around the stained plates and bowls of half eaten cereal, she cursed her optimism and rinsed a small tumbler. She filled it with cold water and shuffled out of the kitchen.
She lowered her eyes as she passed the mirror in the short hallway. Her hair had prematurely greyed, and her face carried the creases of a hard life. The worst was her weight. She’d never been slim, always a curvy, full-figured woman. Now the curves hung in sagging folds, and the skin on her legs, back and belly were a road map of varicose veins and stretch marks.
In the living room, empty lager cans were strewn on the carpet, and the remains of biscuit wrappers and crisp packets littered the sofa.
Jenny turned on the television and manoeuvred around her low coffee table, careful not to knock any mess from its surface. Crouching, she swept her hand across the worn seat of the sofa, knocking all the boys’ crap onto the floor. With a small groan of comfort, she sank into the fabric.
Outside, the street lights deemed it dark enough to start the night’s work, and flickered on.
The change attracted Jenny’s attention to the window.
The Harper house lay directly across the street. A quick flash of seething hate always accompanied sight or mention of the Harpers.
What a bitch, thought Jenny. Enough money to not even work? If I could afford to stay at home all day like a goddamn princess, my boys might be as perfect as her goody-goody kids. She don’t know how good she has it over there. And she kept her figure…
Jenny looked away from the Harper house and further up the street. The witch’s house. The old bag always had a problem with the boys, looking down her nose at them every time she dared venture out of the house.
You’re not going to get one penny out me, you old hag. Probably buy a new cauldron and spell book with the compensation.
Jenny chuckled to herself. She wondered if all their hardships over the last few years had been the result of a gypsy curse from the old mystic. In fact, Jenny had been secretly pleased that the boys had tried to steal from her.
Steal from the rich, give to the poor. That Robin Hood has his head on straight. If only they had paid that bitch Anne Harper a visit first…
She glanced down and realised that she’d begun to fidget with her necklace that held her husband’s wedding ring. Jenny instantly regretted her spiteful thoughts.
I’m sorry, Harold, she thought, turning his ring over and over in her fingers. I hate thinking like this. I shouldn’t be encouraging the boys; they should be disciplined, just like you did when they were kids.
She turned her head to the old photo of her late husband on the dusty mantelpiece. Taken at the park about twelve years ago, he held the young twins up, one on each arm, and all three were smiling in the sun. He might have been thinning on top and worn tiny, bookworm spectacles, but he’d been her hero.
It’s times like this I need you. The boys need a firm hand.
She returned her attention to the television, knowing this trail of thought led to tears.
The snooker was on. A young player, who looked like a thirteen year old trying to grow a moustache, debated his next shot. The commentator rambled on in hushed tones.
Jenny searched for the remote control. The news had started on the other channel; she needed to hear about other people’s misery.
She rummaged through the contents of the coffee table, almost knocking over an ashtray full to the brim of stubbed out filters. She wrinkled her nose; she hated the boys smoking, especially in the house.
Jenny looked around the carpet, hoping that the remote had fallen within close proximity of the sofa. She stopped and sat back, studying the room in complete disbelief.
How could she have let it get this bad? Where along the line had she lost her control over the twins and let them treat their home like a pig sty?
Her body seemed to deflate and curl up.
She gazed at the photo of her late husband with tear blurred vision.
You’re not coming back, she realised again. I’ve waited ten years for you, Harold. Ten long years of waiting for you to come walking in like nothing happened and sort out the boys, sort out everything. You’re dead, Harold. I’m on my own.
The thought, far from bringing on a fresh bout of despair, sobered her somewhat.
On screen, the youngster had potted a tricky red and lined up a shot on the black. It was a hard shot, but the ball took a lucky deflection from the cushion and cleanly fell into a corner pocket. The audience applauded and the commentator gushed with praise.
When they walk in, I’ll be here, waiting for them. No matter what time they return, I will be here.
She wiped her cheeks dry and fingered Harold’s wedding ring.
They will listen this time.
3.
Jake clung onto his brother, his hands clasped onto each shoulder. His head had filled with the whine of the bike, the screech of tyres, the blare of a car horn, and the shout from angry pedestrians layered beneath it. His hair flapped about his face, sometimes hitting him in the eyes. He’d blink and whip his head from side to side to shake it loose. They hurtled towards town.
The wind stung his eyes, and he stared through tear-streaked vision. Streetlights swelled to large spheres of golden brilliance that grew in size as he squinted at them. The road and its markings blurred into one black plain under the night.
The storm clouds had taken full control of the sky, totally blocking out the stars and sleek crescent of moon. The draught that swept around his arms and chest earlier had grown steadily chillier during the short journey; penetrating his coat with ease and sliding icy fingers of cold air across his skin. He shivered.
Hope we make it back before it rains. You can easily get soaked to the bone driving through the rain.
They emerged from the quiet suburbs and approached the centre of town. Through the s
mell of oil, petrol and exhaust fumes emerged the scents of pizza, chips and vinegar. Seemed the takeaways had opened for their Friday night business, ready to feed the hungry revellers that walked, or usually staggered, through their doors.
This is where the boys wanted to be, where the action was.
A group of around a dozen women walking down the street stopped to file into one of the many bars along the road. Jake looked over his shoulder as the bike passed them, his gaze full of short skirts and low vest tops. Only when the last of the giggling girls entered through the doorway and out of sight did he turn back to the road ahead.
Roughly a hundred yards down the street, an old woman walked alone, heading away from the boys. Grey-white curls hung from beneath her woollen hat, and she slowly shuffled along the pavement, leaning on a worn cane. A black handbag, slung over her right shoulder from a thin strap, swayed with each hesitant step.
She reached the outside of Sefton’s off-licence, and Jake released his grip and pounded his brother on the shoulder. Reaching past Adam’s head, he pointed at the woman.
Adam nodded and steered the bike to the far left of the road, the curb only inches from the tyres. He glanced upwards at the approaching road.
The distance between the growling bike and the elderly woman had halved in the few seconds it had taken Adam to complete his checks.
Jake prepared himself.
He hung onto his brother’s right shoulder even harder. The white fabric of the tracksuit folded in between his fingers, and the lean muscle bulged underneath. Jake leaned out to the left of the bike, hovering over the pavement, hand outstretched.
The woman stopped and turned to cast a weary glance at the approaching din.
Jake saw the worry in her eyes, nestled in the network of wrinkles on her weathered face.
Too late, old girl.
With a sharp tug from Jake, the strap tore from her shoulder and the old woman lurched forwards, her balance gone with the slight impact. With a small cry of surprise, she toppled forward, front first onto the pavement. The cane dropped from her hand.
Jake watched from over his shoulder. Both hands had returned to clutching Adam, only now one contained the black handbag.
The Collector Book One: Mana Leak Page 5