by Limey Lady
Alfie had been running away from home for two years now. This was his sixth time and already his longest on the loose. And, even though it was January, he was determined to stick it out at least another week. Denny's boyfriends used to last about six months. Nowadays the average was more like two and decreasing all the time. He had, of course, affected the averages by running away and upsetting Denny’s judgment. That was very, very deliberate and he was very, very proud of it. And this latest escape was the most deliberate of all. This was intended to prise her away from the nastiest sad bastard she'd ever hooked up with.
Alfie's natural father had never been on the scene and there hadn't been much presence from other relatives. He’d never had anyone to call “granny” or “granddad”. Or “auntie” or “uncle”, come to that. For as long as he could remember he’d lived in a succession of dingy flats with his mother, Denise, who just everyone . . . himself included . . . called “Denny”.
The trail of flats had gradually taken them away from Denny's home town of Huddersfield, first to Shipley and then to Bingley, where they now seemed to have been forever. Alfie didn't mind all the flats, actually liked living in Bingley and he loved Denny more than anything in the world.
What he liked less and less was the never-ending string of boyfriends.
Denny was only thirty-one. She was tall and well-built and, while not stunningly pretty, looked easily as good as any of the other mums Alfie had seen. Maybe it was her slinky ass but she’d never had any trouble in finding blokes. It was her poor choice of the ones she let move in that caused the problems.
Alfie supposed Denny had got her fun sex somehow when he was small (along with drinking lager it was, after all, her only pleasure), but he hadn't noticed the swarms of boyfriends until Bingley, where they had moved when he'd been six. Back then it had been okay because Denny only brought them home for one night at a time. In fact it had been sort of fun for him too, and often rewarding. If Denny's one-nighter had slept over before he'd usually remember to bring crisps and nuts for “the little lad”. If the guy hadn’t been before and Denny forgot to tell him in the pub, there had always been the chance of getting a pound for the shop in the morning.
The first live-in had been best. He’d been called Paul and had just split from his wife. Paul had had a car and took them places. It was so long ago now that Alfie couldn't remember where Paul had actually taken them. All he could remember was that the one and only time he’d ever seen the sea was during one of those long ago outings.
Paul had lasted quite a while before Denny got tired of him. Then there had been other live-in lovers coming and going, rarely with more than a few weeks between them. Some of them hadn't been too bad but most had been awful. It was almost as if Denny was intentionally picking those guys who hated kids in general and Alfie in particular.
*****
Denny’s latest “friend” was far and away the worst. He was called Nigel and strutted round like he was a big, hard Hells Angel. Nigel didn't seem to work (unlike Denny, who worked every hour God sent to keep a roof over their heads), and he didn't contribute to anything as far as Alfie could tell. The only good thing about him was he was hardly ever in the flat.
Even thinking about Nigel made him angry. Nigel had virtually ignored him up until a month ago, when he’d suddenly suggested it was time Alfie stood on his own two feet. Alfie had thought he was joking but a little later he had heard Nigel arguing with Denny in her bedroom. Cautiously listening in, he’d realized his proposed moving out was the subject of the argument.
Me! Moving out!
Denny was fiercely sticking up for her beloved child but, just as he was starting to hope Nigel would be the one imminently leaving, the shouting was replaced by a rhythmic banging. Alfie hadn't needed help in putting that into context: Nigel was fucking Denny very, very hard and, by the sound of things, she was enjoying it very, very much. The loud banging went on for ages and ages, ending with a happy shout from Denny.
Alfie had been finally starting to drift off to sleep when he’d heard his mother say, ‘Please don't leave me Nige, you're the best.’ Maybe he had dreamt it but that didn't matter; that was when he decided Nigel had to go.
But how could he pull it off? Alfie was only thirteen. He knew his greatest hero, Mike Tyson, had been out mugging and fighting in New York's mean streets at that sort of age, but he wasn't built like Iron Mike. And even a thirteen-year-old Tyson might have struggled with a brute like “Nige”. The only option he had was to do another runner . . . and to make it the most convincing ever.
Not to mention the coldest.
So far it had been so good. Alfie could proudly claim this as his best effort. He had nicked a two man, camouflage-effect tent from a neighbour's shed, “borrowed” from Denny's emergency pot then trudged up here, camping down in the dead and dying reeds on the bank of this choked up reservoir.
And he’d chosen the position carefully, remembering it from an old school field trip; sure he could lose himself in all those tall reeds. When he’d been satisfied the tent couldn't be seen unless someone actually fell over it (and what sort of nutter would go prowling about in there?), he’d walked back down to town and got provisions with some of Denny's eighty quid.
He’d been there ever since, wrapped up in three layers of clothing, living off own-brand crisps and cola, passing the time reading a pile of paperbacks he'd bought cheap from a charity shop. He wasn't a stupid lad (his teachers were always urging him to work to his potential) and knew his current diet would do him no good if he kept it up. It wouldn't hurt him in the short term, though, and he couldn't risk smoke from a fire, however tempting the thought of hot food might be.
The plan was to stay for a fortnight. He’d never run away for longer than three days before, and not once in winter. Denny would already think he'd made it to London or Kathmandu or somewhere. Another week and surely Nigel would be on his way.
Alfie forced a laugh. Previously disappearances had worked like a charm. This time he wasn't nearly so confident.
Please don't leave me Nige, you're the best.
He didn't think Denny had said anything like that to any of the others. He hadn't seen any sign of her getting tired of Nigel yet, either. What if this was the time Denny chose the live-in instead of her own son?
Surely she loved him too much to do that. Didn't she?
*****
The latest paperback was a battered copy of On the Beach. Alfie was reading it by torchlight and starting to squint as his last batteries faded, along with the hopes of the survivors of all those cobalt bombs. There again, unlike most of the characters in the book, he didn’t intend to sit back and take whatever fate held in store. In the morning he’d go back down to town for more provisions. And, seeing as he had at least fifty quid left, he'd treat himself to fish and chips for the long walk back. There was no need for him to go hunt out additional reading matter, though; he still had ten more assorted novels to get through.
Lady Chatterley’s Lover was up next. He had a rough idea what to expect from his English lessons at school and had been holding it back on purpose . . . as some of those Aussies had saved the finer bottles of port.
Gamekeepers and cocks . . .
Nearby voices cut into his thoughts. Men's voices, coming from up by the road. That was unusual at this time of night. Engines shutting down and engines restarting were as far as it normally went: meaning cars stopping so the occupants could furtively fuck in silence. Only a few of them opened the windows so their cries could echo over the moors. Nobody ever got out for a chat.
And, as far as Alfie was aware, none of those cars had been occupied by two blokes.
Curious, he clicked off his torch and stuck his head out of the flap. He'd pitched the tent forty metres from the road, rearranging the surrounding reeds so he could see in most directions without being seen. Now he could make out two figures up there. Because of the drop from the road to the water it was hard to tell how big they were, but they look
ed and sounded like fully grown men. As he watched, the larger of the two drew back his arm and seemed to throw something.
Sure enough, a moment later, Alfie heard a small splash somewhere off to his right.
What the bejabbers was that?
The man drew his arm back again, and again Alfie was too slow to see anything leaving his hand.
This time the splash was a little louder but just as hard to pinpoint. The third and final throw was much easier to track. Alfie followed something black and rapidly spinning high in the air, seemingly flying up and over the moon, all the way until it hit the water. And it hit right across from him, directly in line with that tall, illuminated chimney, miles away on the other side of the valley.
Without taking his eyes off the splashdown site, Alfie scraped a line in the silt at the front of his tent. Then, ignoring the sound of the car starting and driving away, he moved back under canvas and looked along the line as if it was an arrow.
Perfect. His arrow pointed directly at the chimney. Whatever that third object was, it was about twenty metres away in the water, along that imaginary line. If he wanted to, he could easily swim out and get it.
Well, he could as long as the water didn’t freeze overnight.
A peculiar sort of excitement ran through him. Nowadays he mostly read grownup books but very few of them were as good as kids’ books. Kids’ books could be exciting without being full of sex and violence. Even the old ones were packed with adventure. Who could honestly put their hand on their heart and say they hadn’t been thrilled by Treasure Island?
Not him, anyway. He’d first read it when he was about ten. Thoughts of blind pirates, black spots and buried gold roused him now just as much as they had then.
Already it wasn’t a case of if he wanted to get whatever it was. There was no doubt about it, he bloody well had to. Whatever it was that had gone in there was treasure. It was forced to be. Those guys hadn't come all the way up here to ditch their crap from McDonalds, had they?
*****
Pat nodded to Sean as he drove off in the Focus, then he went into the hotel and asked for a single room. The receptionist didn't seem surprised by him showing up unannounced after midnight. She just said it would be eighty-two pounds and he’d have to vacate by eleven. She only properly looked at him when he said eleven o'clock might be a problem.
‘I'm going out for a few drinks,’ he explained as cheerfully as he could. ‘The weekend starts here.’ Then, seeing her dubious glance at his clothes: ‘Don't worry, I'm getting changed first. I've been working late.’
‘I'm supposed to charge for another day if you go past eleven. What did you have in mind?’
‘What time's breakfast?’
‘Six until nine.’
‘In that case I'll be back for breakfast at six. If I can keep the room until two, that'll be great.’
Smiling, the receptionist punched some buttons on her keyboard. ‘Eighty-two pounds,’ she said. ‘You can vacate at two pm. And have a good night.’
‘Thank you. I will.’ Noticing how good-looking she was and feeling obliged, he ventured, ‘What time do you finish?’
‘Me?’ she laughed. ‘Not until long after you'll have had breakfast. If that was an invite, I'll have to decline.’
When he got to his room he looked longingly at the bed. If he could just flop, fall asleep for a week and forget everything . . .
But Sean was right: they had to cover their tracks as thoroughly as possible. He’d already thrown the keys to the Lexus, the Glock and the empty magazine into a reservoir . . . all wiped for prints, naturally. Then Sean had stopped at an all-night supermarket, so he could buy a complete new set of clothes and the travelling case he’d just dumped on the bed (together with some everyday provisions too, to make it look good).He’d settled up in cash, of course.
All he needed to do now was get changed, ditch the old clobber and he'd be home free . . . Well, free supposedly.
In his heart Pat knew nothing was ever going to be the same again. However hard he tried, he could not stop reliving those moments of madness when he’d mown down all those kids. Juddering images played constantly in his head. Gun flashes mixing with moonlight. Young bodies bucking and exploding. Innocent life ending . . .
Bodies falling and twitching; black blood splashing over the walls and bedroom doors.
It was a nightmare. Even if he could justify the father (who'd frigging deserved it) and mother (who’d turned it into a “me-or-you” situation) he could never hope to justify those kids. Not when they’d stopped running at him and turned to flee.
He couldn't even blame the cocaine, because he'd taken it willingly.
Christ, if Dee ever finds out about this . . .
Fortunately, both he and Sean had kept low profiles after planning the (supposedly simple and quite straightforward) job and leaving the Kings. Sean had gone to Southfork to knock out some zeds and he’d just mooched about at home, wondering what DeeDee was up to. Their cover story now was that they’d been in Leeds instead. If pressed, and as a last resort, they were going to say they’d been debt-chasing in Harehills, then had a few drinks before deciding to make a night of it.
That wasn’t as flimsy as it sounded. They’d done Harehills often enough to know nobody there would help the police prove or disprove their claim. And Pat had re-enforced the cover story by telling that sexy receptionist he'd been working, paying for the room with a Maestro card in his real name.
Sean had been confident they hadn't been caught on camera anywhere near Bingley, never mind in or around the Lexus. They’d both worn gloves and had taken as much care as possible not to leave any DNA at the scene. That left fibres and powder burns as the obvious giveaways . . . together with the odd bloodstain or two.
Hence the new togs.
Pat showered, scrubbing himself thoroughly before dressing like an aging model for George. Then he put his worn clothes and trainers in two ASDA carrier bags, which he took with him when he left, timing it so he passed the desk while his favourite receptionist was otherwise engaged.
He’d arranged to meet Sean in a late bar at one thirty. Before that he had to get rid of the carriers. He walked for ten minutes, heading away from the brighter lights until he saw what he was looking for.
The tramp was sitting beside a brazier in a big hole in the ground. Pat guessed the hole had set off as the foundations of some building project that had been started and abruptly mothballed shortly after credit crunched. He could see there was access into the hole via an earthen incline, but had no intention of ever going down there himself. Instead, he called to attract the man's attention then simply let the bags drop.
‘What's this?’ the tramp growled suspiciously.
‘Clothes,’ Pat called back. ‘I’ll give you twenty quid if you burn the fuckers.’
The old man pulled out the socks and inspected them closely before tossing them onto his brazier.
‘There’s nowt wrong with this jacket.’
Pat sighed and made his way down the ramp after all. By the time he got to the bottom the tramp had added most of the clothes onto the flames. He still, however, had designs on the jacket and trainers.
‘This is quality, this,’ he said. ‘And my boots have had it.’
‘You can get just as good in the morning. I’m sure you know where the bargain shops are.’
‘Twenty quid won’t get me much.’
‘Look mate, I’ve had a bad day. I’m not going to haggle with you.’
Something in his voice made the old man take a step backwards. Pat had half a mind to grab him by the throat but didn’t. There’d been too much murder and mayhem already tonight.
‘Burn them and I’ll make it forty quid.’
The right trainer went on the flames in an instant, quickly followed by the left. And then the tramp (who might just have done this before) started pulling the lining out of the jacket.
‘It’s a waste this,’ he mumbled, ‘a crying shame.’
> Pat waited until everything was blazing beyond salvage before handing over four tenners.
‘Don’t spend it all at once.’
‘Yes boss; whatever you say.’
Pat gave him a final stare then, turning on his heel, set off to join Sean.
Chapter Forty
(Thursday 8th January 2009)
At times like this Sylvia was priceless. She didn't need to be told that her husband had something on his mind, she just knew. And to Sylvia, a worry wasn't to be shared, it was to be got rid of, pronto. Especially when he went to sleep worrying and woke up even worse; that was her cue to hide the clocks and detain him in bed . . . possibly all morning.