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  “Him? Who the fuck is ‘him’ supposed to be, the cat’s father?”

  “Sorry, I meant Steve,” he hastily replied.

  Ernest backed off and headed over to the toilets before Steve could have another pop at him.

  “Wait up you, I ain’t finished with you.”

  Ernest’s heart began to speed up. Oh great; so the line had already been crossed. He watched Steve slide off the barstool.

  “Come on Steve, aren’t we a little too old for this type of nonsense?” he said, desperately trying to defuse the situation.

  “What, so I’m too old, am I now?”

  He desperately looked across at his mate, hoping to attract his attention. Fat chance of getting back up from him, the pisshead had his head on the table. He looked like he’d dropped off to sleep. Oh bloody hell; the last thing he needed right now was to get into a fight with this idiot.

  He found it laughable that the one thing that Darren hadn’t inherited from Ernest was his desire for an easy life and to avoid confrontations. His son would have just punched Steve Reynolds into next week without even breaking a sweat.

  The door behind the bar creaked open, saving Ernest from a beating. The landlord’s wife walked out, closely followed by Desmond Naylor. Seeing that huge bloke with his ham-sized paws wrapped around the woman’s waist came as a bit of a shock to Ernest. He’d heard the rumours that Des was sniffing around Annie now that she’d managed to get rid of her husband. He had no idea that he was staying in the pub.

  Desmond nodded over to Ernest. “You alright?”

  Ernest nodded back, unintentionally copying the big man’s posture. Desmond’s hair was soaked, and his t-shirt clung to his large chest; he even had some soap in his ear. Ernest wondered if he dared tell him. The bloke did look unusually chilled out. It wasn’t that hard to figure out what those two had been doing in the bathroom.

  He breathed a sigh of relief, safe in the knowledge that the tosser wouldn’t dare try anything with big Des standing right behind the bar giving Steve the evil glare.

  “I hope you ain’t upsetting folk again, shortarse.”

  Steve visibly cringed and tried to smile. It was not a pretty sight. “Of course not,” he replied. “We’re just having a bit of a laugh, that’s all. Ernest offered to buy me a drink.”

  He made that announcement sound as if Ernest buying that nasty fucking dwarf a pint was somehow genuine proof of their everlasting friendship.

  Desmond laughed out loud; a fresh pint had magically appeared next to the big man’s left hand. “Don’t you try to bullshit me; you’ve been a right little twat to my mate, Ernest, ever since he was knee high to a grasshopper.”

  To be fair, Desmond did a fair amount of slapping when they were both kids as well, but that stopped when they’d both turned over a warehouse filled with knock-off trainers on the outskirts of Bradford fifteen years ago.

  “I think you’ll find that it’s you who’s buying Ernest a drink.”

  “Don’t forget me!” shouted a voice from their table.

  That was just like Jeff. Where the hell was his friend when Steve was having a go at him? Ernest retreated to the toilets, grinning from ear to ear when he heard Desmond calmly informing Steve that he was paying for his pint too.

  Ernest was grateful that the gents were deserted. He leaned back against the tiles and closed his eyes, enjoying the silence and the solitude. He waited for his heart to slow down before he padded over to the urinals.

  Steve Reynolds had been inside for GBH—grievous bodily harm—for the best part of five years. He’d only just been released. Those bliss-filled nights of being able to walk into his favourite watering hole without the risk of being hassled were well and truly over. He couldn’t expect Desmond to watch his back every night.

  The Horse and Jockey was the only pub in the middle of the estate. There were a couple of other pubs within walking distance—the Crown and the Black Bull—but there was no way that he’d dare show his face in either of those two. The locals from the Breakspear Rise estate had claimed them.

  Even after all these years, he knew most of the locals in those two pubs, and he knew them because Ernest had done most of their houses over. Somehow drinking in the same places with folk who’d probably knife him if they ever found out would not do his welfare any good.

  He jumped back when the door pushed open from the other side, and a young lad wearing a bright orange shirt wandered in. The lad nodded to Ernest, and he nodded back. He didn’t know the lad from Adam. Oh he’d seen him in the pub a few times, but that was about as far as it went, but they both drank in the same place, so therefore they nodded to each other. The regulars in the Horse and Jockey all considered themselves to be part of the same family. It was that fucking Steve Reynolds who didn’t belong. He was the one who ought to bugger off.

  Ernest grabbed the door handle and wished for the bastard to get sent down again. He re-entered the lounge and made his way up to the bar to collect his drinks. Ernest noted with great relief that Steve’s bar stool was now vacant. He hoped that the man had pissed off out of the pub, or even better, had a heart attack and died.

  He wasn’t so lucky. Ernest spotted the clown in the games room arguing with one of the youngsters next to the dartboard.

  “How’s your lad doing?” asked Ernest. “I haven’t seen him around ours for a couple of weeks.”

  He didn’t really wish to start a conversation with big Des, but if Steve happened to look over and saw them two getting all friendly, there was less chance of him coming back over. It would, of course, piss Jeff off, too, knowing that his beer was getting warm and Ernest obviously having no inclination to bring it over.

  Desmond unwrapped his arms from around the barmaid’s waist and pulled himself another pint. “Well, apart from this bloody headache, I’m pretty good. Hey, our Ashton’s at your place tonight, mate, along with half the teenagers on Breakspear.” Desmond smirked at Ernest’s shocked expression. “Oh dear, I’m guessing that you didn’t know that your son was having a drug-crazed party then?”

  He shook his head. No, he didn’t have a bloody clue. He was going to tear Darren a new arsehole for pulling a stunt like this. Bloody hell, they’d just bought a new carpet for the living room as well. The thing would be ruined by the time this party ended.

  “Your house is going to be in a right state.”

  Ernest cringed, wondering if that was a jibe about the condition of their house. Christ, he sure hoped not. With the pint in one hand and the bottle in the other, Ernest made his way back to his smirking friend. He was willing to put down his next wage that Brenda knew all about this party. Hell, she’d probably helped to organize it too.

  “You took your bloody time,” Jeff said.

  “Oh I’m sorry. I had no idea that you were timing me. If had have known that, I would have run.”

  Ernest placed the drinks down on the table, gave Jeff a mucky look, and collapsed into the seat. “Anyway, it’s about time you slowed down. You’re supping the stuff like its pop. You’re gonna be three sheets before last orders at this rate.”

  Jeff grabbed his fresh pint like a starving man reached for the plate of roast beef. His friend was behaving very strangely tonight, stranger than normal anyway.

  “Erm, did you know that our Darren was having a party tonight?”

  Jeff nodded. “Sure, our Billy took his new bird there.”

  “And you didn’t think of informing me?”

  Jeff shrugged. “With it being your own fucking house, I had the feeling that you might already know.”

  Ernest pulled a lump of foam out of the seat and rolled it between his fingers before flicking it under the table. “No wonder this place is like a bloody morgue tonight, they’ll all be at the party, wrecking my house.”

  Jeff put his glass down; he’d already drunk three-quarters. “I don’t think they’ll all be at your gaff.”

  He had a point there. The old fel
low who propped up the end of the bar at weekends was missing. Ernest couldn’t remember his name, Dennis or David, something like that. Somehow he doubted that he’d be getting down with the kids. That reminded him, he hadn’t seen the guy’s wife for weeks; he wondered if she had passed away.

  He scanned the bar and saw that Scary Mary was missing too. She propped up the other end of the bar and never missed a night.

  “I wonder where Mary is. I hope she isn’t at my house.”

  A foil packet had appeared in the palm of Jeff’s trembling hand. He had four white caplets in his hand already and was busy popping the rest out. “Don’t talk daft, why would she be at your place? The fat bitch will probably be in bed with an electric blanket over her head.” He threw the caplets in his mouth and swallowed them down with the last dregs of his beer. “And that is where I should be tonight.”

  “In Scary Mary’s bed?”

  “No, you fucking unfunny bastard, I mean in my bed.”

  “So why aren’t you?”

  He caught sight of Desmond lip dancing with the landlady and turned away, bloody hell! It looked like he was trying to eat her. That sort of nonsense belonged out of sight. It was putting him right off his beer.

  “Because it’s Friday night, of course,” Jeff replied. “It’s what we’ve always done ever since we left school; at least it was until you got that bloody job.”

  “What are you on about? I’ve had the job at the minimarket for the past six years.”

  Jeff’s eyes glazed over. It took another few seconds before he replied. “Wait, did you just say six years. Shit, you sure about that? Thought it was only a week ago. He placed the flats of his hands on the table surface and heaved himself up. “Fuck, look, I’d better get some air. Feel so weird.”

  His mate staggered around and stumbled towards the pub door. Ernest looked at the man’s untouched pint and the bottle stood next to the glass. Something told him that Jeff wasn’t coming back. Maybe he should walk him home and make sure the fella got in bed and didn’t decide to sleep in somebody’s shed.

  He could always catch up with Jeff. There’s no way he could leave this beer on the table. It could be another week before alcohol passed his lips. Ernest selected Jeff’s pint. After another backbreaking week of working for Mr Singh, even shitty beer would taste like God’s own nectar.

  The glass slipped through his fingers when an ear-piercing scream shattered the silence. He looked around wildly for the source. His dazed eyes stopped at the bar and refused to move. This could not be happening. Desmond still held the woman tight, but the embrace was no longer a tender one.

  She struggled like a fish on the end of a line as he lifted her by the neck off the carpet. Desmond growled, then bit into her face and tore off a lump of flesh; he spat the piece out and dived back in for more.

  Ernest’s stomach churned, and he felt hot bile climbing up his throat. No way could this be real. It had to be someone’s idea of a very sick joke.

  The screamer let out another blast, and Ernest discovered that Desmond wasn’t the only freak in the Horse and Jockey that evening. He finally tore his gaze away from the big man crunching into the still woman’s exposed skull as if it was a fucking apple and looked over to the dartboard.

  Steve Reynolds had pinned a young blonde girl against the wall. She was the screamer. Both her hands were against his head. She desperately tried to keep his snapping jaws away from her own face.

  Ernest stood up. “What the fuck are you doing?” he screamed.

  The crazed man didn’t react, but Desmond did. He dropped the woman’s body and groaned aloud.

  Ernest could see that the girl’s strength was beginning to fail. He looked around the empty pub, frantically searching for somebody else who could help the poor girl. There was only him, and the boy in the bright shirt. That kid would be no use, he was too busy huddled in the corner of the games room, clutching a pool cue as if it were a teddy bear.

  He pulled himself out of the seat while watching that man behind the bar. Des kept trying to reach Ernest, not yet realizing that the now scarlet-painted bar was in his way. He blinked and muttered a short prayer before he picked up a beer bottle left on the next table. He ran towards the dartboard and smashed it into the back of Reynolds’s head.

  The girl screamed even louder as shards of broken glass showered her face. The bottle had little effect—if anything, it helped to push the man closer to the girl.

  “Don’t just sit there,” Ernest shouted at the boy. “Fucking get over here, and help me.”

  The young lad didn’t even move his sodding head; he was hunched over his shoes, frantically grabbing at something. Ernest moaned. What was he supposed to fucking do now? In frustration and panic, he grabbed the back of Steve’s collar and tried to pull him off the girl, but it was useless. It was like trying to pull a pit-bull off a puppy.

  “Duck!”

  Ernest spun around. The boy now stood next to him, swinging a weighted sock around his head.

  “Move it, Granddad.”

  Ernest let go of the man and bobbed down. He winced at the sharp crack that the improvised weapon made as it impacted against the side of Steve’s head. The man fell to the floor like a sack of bricks. Ernest scurried back before the dark grey slop dribbling from the large dent in Steve’s head reached his fingers.

  “Oh Jesus fuck! What the bloody hell’s wrong with him?” moaned the girl. She growled before swinging her foot into the side of the man’s head. “That’s for trying to fucking bite me, you freaky bastard.”

  The boy offered his hand; Ernest took it and hauled himself off the floor. “Thanks,” he muttered. “I’m Ernest.”

  “Don’t thank me yet, Granddad, we ain’t done just yet.”

  Desmond had managed to get out through the serving hatch and was headed straight for them. The boy forced a pool cue into Ernest’s hands.

  “Here you go, Granddad, now it’s your turn.”

  He looked stupidly at the pool cue, then jerked his head up and watched the huge pile of meat shamble towards them. What the bloody hell was he supposed to do with this? He might as well be armed with a fucking toothpick.

  Desmond clacked his jaws together. It sounded like a mousetrap springing shut. Desmond moaned even louder.

  “Don’t just fucking stand there, you gormless bastard! Stab him!”

  “I can’t!” Ernest cried. “I’m no murderer.”

  The boy pulled Ernest back from Desmond’s grasping hands. “It’s self-defense, just look at him, man, he wants to kill you!”

  Ernest thought of all those times when people like Des and Steve knocked the shit out of him when he was younger. He remembered all the times when he visibly shook at the sight of them. He gripped the shaft tight with both hands, then charged at Desmond. The big man made no attempt to dodge; it was almost like he welcomed death. Ernest was only too happy to oblige. He drove the point up through the man’s jaw and deep into Desmond’s brain. It surprised him just how easy the cue went in; there was hardly any resistance, almost like pushing a steak knife through a hot Sunday joint.

  “Oh God, please take me home, Adrian,” said the girl.

  The boy took her hand then led her towards the exit. He looked back at Ernest.

  “Are you coming or what?”

  “What have I just done?”

  “What you had to,” replied the boy. “Now come on, pull yourself together.”

  Ernest’s home away from home now resembled an abattoir. Blood running from Desmond’s head pooled around the man’s ear. He watched the last blob of soap drop off the dead man’s lug and land in the scarlet fluid. Ernest distantly wondered why none of this absolute horror had affected his own sanity. Should he not be on his knees about now, tearing out his hair and thrusting his fist into his open mouth to muffle his shrieking?

  “Granddad. Are you just going to stand there? We have to shift it.”

  Ernest ran over to the bar
.

  “What the hell are you doing, old man?”

  “What do you think I’m doing? We need to phone the police!”

  The boy sighed. “Don’t you think I’ve already tried that? There’s no signal.” He pushed past Ernest and snatched the phone off the wall beside the bar. He placed the receiver to his ear before nodding to himself. “It’s dead, just like my mobile.”

  Ernest picked up the phone and held it to his ear; the resounding silence shocked him more than killing Desmond.

  “Are you ready now?”

  He slowly nodded, thinking back to how this irritating kid had first reacted when this madness first started. Maybe it just took some people a bit longer to respond. Ernest then glanced over at his table, still expecting Jeff to be slumped in his chair. He then remembered that Jeff had said he was going home. Bloody hell, he hoped that he had managed to get home safely.

  Chapter Four

  The theme music to A Fistful of Dollars played low in the background. The living room lights were off, and the only illumination came from a green tinted desk light, the white light from the kitchen, and the static on TV.

  Dennis Flynn had believed that his night couldn’t get any better. He should have known better not ignore Lady Fate and her deck of cards. He grinned to himself. At least this hand was a winner.

  He ambled across his warm living room, holding his cup of hot chocolate with both hands, and trying to carefully keep the cup level so none of the liquid would slop over the edge was a harder job than he anticipated. Still, Dennis relished a challenge, and although his cautious hat earlier advised pouring a little out first, he listened to his impulsive hat this time. So what if it was only the surface tension stopping the stuff from spilling over, would it really be the end of the world if the carpet caught a few drops?

  I could have at least dug out a damn saucer,” he muttered.

  Dennis headed straight for his old coffee table, pleased to discover that despite the movement, not one drop had dribbled down the sides. He was getting better at this. Then again, he’d always been blessed with a pair of steady hands. He leaned over the table and gently placed his cup down on the cork mat.