by Shaun Hutson
Compulsion
by
Shaun Hutson
Also by Shaun Hutson
SLUGS
SPAWN
ERE BUS
SHADOWS
BREEDING GROUND
DEATH DAY
RELICS
VICTIMS
ASSASSIN
NEMESIS
RENEGADES
CAPTIVES
HEATHEN
DEADHEAD
WHITE GHOST
LUCY’S CHILD
STOLEN ANGELS
KNIFE EDGE
PURITY
WARHOL’S PROPHECY
EXIT WOUNDS
SHAUN HUTSON
COMPULSION
MACMILLAN
First published 2001 by Macmillan an imprint of Macmillan Publishers Ltd 25 Eccleston Place, London SW1W 9NF Basingstoke and Oxford Associated companies throughout the world www.macmillan.com ISBN: 0- 333 73723 7 identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system or transitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical Photocopying recording or otherwise) without the prior wren pension o the pub.ishe, Any person who does any unautCed act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil clams for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Typeset by Set Systems Ltd, Saffron Walden, Essex Printed and bound in
Great Britain by Mackays of Chatham plc, Chatham, Kent
This book is dedicated to Graeme Sayer and Callum Hughes With thanks
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
IT’S THAT TIME again, when I thank a wide ranging, unconnected group of people and places for some kind of support, help, encouragement or drugs (oops, sorry, didn’t mean that to slip out...) received during the writing of this latest novel.
Anyway, if you’re in this list you’ll probably know why but, in case you’ve forgotten why you’re in it then read on.
Many thanks to my agent, Sara Fisher for her skill, expertise and ability to handle even the most fragile egos. She’s just not too good when she’s stepping off tube trains ... Continued thanks to everyone at my publisher’s, especially Peter Lavery. Also to Matt Smith.
I don’t usually give him a line on his own but my accountant, Mr. Peter Nichols, deserves one. I’d give him a bloody knighthood if I could ... Cheers, Pete.
Special thanks also to Jack Taylor, Tom Sharp, Barbara Grant, Karen (yes, look, you’re mentioned .. .) and Jim at the Clydesdale bank in Piccadilly.
Thanks also to Lesley Tebbs, Lewis Bloch and Stephen Luckman.
My usual nods towards Dee, Zena, Nicky, Jo, Terri, Becky and Rachel.
Thanks also to Janette for sorting out our computer.
Special thanks to Sanctuary Music. Rod Smallwood who frightened me to death with a phone call. To Polly Polglase. To Carol and Val. To my ever elusive, cheese-making, pig-breeding collossus of a friend, Wally Grove. Also to Steve, Dave, Adrian, Bruce, Janick and Nicko. As great as ever.
Many thanks to James Whale and Ash.
Many, many thanks to Martin ‘gooner’ Phillips for organising a football match I’m sure none of us will ever forget (my bloody legs still ache ...). I think we all turned back the clock that afternoon, mate.
Special thanks to Hailey Owen. Christ knows where you are H, but wherever it is, I’m sure you’re talking .. . See you soon. Many thanks also to Tori at Centurion card.
Thanks once more to Ted and Molly.
Indirect thanks, as ever, to Sam Peckinpah. Also to Bill Hicks. Both sadly missed.
Thank you to Nike football boots, even if it is just to remind me that I’m not nineteen anymore. I would have got that return pass then, honest ... And also to Konami for inventing the best footie game ever to grace a Playstation. Mental blocks get eased that way nowadays.
As ever, thank you to the Rhiga Royal Hotel in New York and to Margaret in Lindy’s in Times Square. We shall return.
A quick thanks to Cineworld in Milton Keynes where I now seem to spend most of my waking hours. Look, sixteen screens what the hell can I do?
Huge thanks to Liverpool Football Club and all those in the Paisley Lounge. Steve ‘househusband’ (and bloody student) Lucas and Paul ‘just aim for the AA van’ Garner. Also thanks to Aaron Reynolds, when he’s not on holiday, and to Simon Whitfield who’s had me in more headlocks in a season than I care to remember. I’ll send you a receipt. Cheers to all of you.
I’m now, at long last, the proud and confused owner of a PC which means people can now annoy me via e-mail as well as phone and fax. However, for those of you who are computer literate (to me that means being able to switch the bloody thing on .. .) you will find, thanks to the incredible efforts of Graeme Sayer and Callum Hughes, a quite superb web site dedicated to all things Hutson. I read it every now and then to find out what I’m doing.
Check out www.shaunhutson.com It’s official and they’ve done a brilliant job on it. Thanks fellas.
The last few thank yous go to my mum and dad. I wish there was an adequate way of thanking them for everything they’ve done and continue to do but there isn’t.
The same goes for my wife, Belinda. She organizes me, sorts out my financial stuff, calms me down and generally tolerates the kind of behaviour that would have had Mother Theresa looking for a pick-axe handle ... What the hell, the only thing she doesn’t do is write the books ... I am because she is. Keep your eye on that Mazda, babe, because you won’t get your hands on it ... (unless it’s tax deductible).
Finally, as ever, the other girl in my life. The apprentice cinema addict, trainee rock music junkie, fledge ling Liverpool fan and fully paid up member of the GLADIATOR appreciation society. My beautiful, wonderful, daughter. One day, all of this will be for you.
The last thank you is for you lot. My readers. Without you there would really be very little point to any of this. For your continued support I humbly thank you.
Let’s go.
Shaun Hutson Though this may be play to you, ‘tis death to us.
Sir Roger L’Estrange
THEY MOVED EASILY in the darkness.
Three shapes: shadows within shadow, portions of the umbra that had taken on life and detached themselves from the blanket of night wrapped tightly around them.
Every so often the cutting edge of a torch beam would slice open the gloom, illuminating an object inside the house, sometimes lighting one of the three faces.
When the beam pinpointed their features, they looked like phantoms.
Fugitives from an unwanted dream.
Two of them ravaged the ground floor of the house, stuffing cassettes into a bin bag.
Manic Street Preachers. Blur. Oasis.
The usual shit.
Simply Red a foot crushed it contemptuously.
Videos were snatched from a shelf: End of Days. Fight Club. The Blair Witch Project.
They all went into the bag.
Titanic crushed underfoot.
The third figure ventured up the narrow staircase to the bedrooms.
Three doors. All closed.
The dark shape crossed the landing and pushed the first one open.
Beyond was a small room.
Posters on the wall: Boyzone. Steps. Bewitched.
As talented as the paper they were grinning out from, the figure mused.
There was a large stuffed dog on the bed. The figure crossed to it and shook it, then tossed it aside.
Drawers were checked, skirts and T-shirts pulled out, scattered across the room.
Leggings, jeans, socks and knickers were a
lso hurled aside with the other belongings.
There were some earrings on the dressing table.
Worthless.
The figure moved to the next room; it was slightly larger.
More posters. Above the bed was one of Manchester United.
The figure hawked loudly and spat on the picture. Thick sputum trickled down the faces of David Beckham and Roy Keane.
Cunts.
A small CD player was pushed into the black bag. It was joined by a Dreamcast console. Better pickings here.
On to the last room. There were lots of books all swept onto the floor and trodden underfoot.
More drawers wrenched open, more clothes hurled around. The figure hesitated, then picked up a pair of knickers. Soft, white cotton. Fingers trailed over the gusset.
Nothing else worth having.
The shape stood on the bed, unzipped grubby combat trousers and urinated onto the duvet.
Downstairs, the other two were waiting.
All three of them left the same way they had entered; through a small window in the kitchen at the rear of the house. There were pieces of broken glass on the window sill, inside and out.
They made their way towards the bottom of the garden, swallowed up by the welcoming night.
It was an easy climb over the fence into the field.
They walked unhurriedly through the tall grass, dragging the dustbin bag.
Behind them, the house remained silent.
CARL THOMPSON DREW gently on the cigarette, then blew out a stream of bluish-grey smoke. It mingled with the steadily swelling cloud already hanging in the flat.
The smell helped to mask the odour of damp that permeated the air inside the abandoned dwelling.
“Give us a light,” Graham Brown murmured, leaning closer to his companion.
Thompson complied and Brown sucked heavily on the Super-king.
At fourteen, Brown was two years Thompson’s junior. Dressed in a dark blue Reebok jacket, combats and a pair of Nike trainers, he sat cross-legged on the bare floor of the flat like some kind of emaciated Buddha.
His skin had already suffered the first onslaught of pubescent acne; spots clustered on his cheeks, chin and forehead like a virulent rash. The redness was a marked contrast to the pallor of his flesh. Here and there hardened crusts of blood had formed, the result of Brown’s insistence on picking the heads from the most troublesome of the blemishes.
Opposite him, Donna Freeman was glancing through the contents of the plastic bin bags they had filled during the burglary.
She was the same age as Brown. Dishwater blonde. Eyes sunken into the sockets. Red rimmed, as if someone had sketched around the orbs with a blood-stained pencil.
Her bulky clothes disguised the still-forming contours of her body.
She scratched at the crook of one arm.
Donna took a drag on the Silk Cut and regarded the haul disinterestedly.
Dressed in a black Tommy Hilfiger sweatshirt and dark grey fleece, she seemed to blend into the gloom. Tight black jeans hugged her legs, tucked into dark brown Caterpillar boots. The toes were scuffed and the leather looked as if it hadn’t tasted polish for several months.
“Not much, is it?” she observed.
Thompson shrugged.
“Thirty quids’ worth,” he said flatly, running a hand through his tousled hair. He then replaced the Nike baseball cap, toying with the brim.
Like his companions, he was dressed in designer clothes, all of which looked as if they were in dire need of a wash.
His face seemed to have escaped the worst ravages of over-active sebacious glands. No spots. No pock-marks. His skin, yet to feel the touch of a razor, was smooth. His eyes were dark, but alert.
He picked at some mud stuck to the sole of his Air Jordans. As it came free he rolled it between his fingers and tossed it in the direction of the far wall.
There were other things there, covered by sheets of clear polythene:
portable TVs; video recorders; a DVD player and some discs; three computers; Playstations; Dreamcast consoles.
You name it, they had it.
Only Thompson, Donna and Brown had access to the flat. If anything went missing, each knew who was responsible. They decided what was sold who to and for how much.
Final word went to Thompson.
A mark of respect.
Of seniority.
Of fear?
Tenner each, then?” Brown asked, getting to his feet, the knickers slipping from his pocket.
Thompson nodded.
“I’m going home,” Brown told them.
“Don’t forget your trophy.” Donna smiled, holding the knickers up.
“Cunt,” he grunted and snatched them from her. Then added, turning to Thompson again: “Call me tomorrow, yeah?”
Thompson nodded and pulled open his jacket, tapping the mobile phone clipped to his belt.
Brown pulled open the door.
“Enjoy yourself, Graham,” Donna called. She made a fist of her right hand and shook it up and down.
“Why don’t you do it for me, cunt?”
“I haven’t got two minutes to spare.”
He slammed the door behind him. They heard his footsteps on the stone stairs.
“You going home?” Donna asked.
“Soon,” Thompson told her.
“See you tomorrow.”
He nodded, looking past her towards the piles of stolen goods.
Donna hesitated.
“Will your dad be home?” she asked.
“Who cares?” Thompson murmured, grinding out his cigarette on the floor.
She waited a moment longer, then walked out, leaving him alone.
He glanced at his watch: 12.47 a.m.
It was less than ten minutes walk to his home.
He decided to wait a little longer.
Perhaps the bastard would be asleep when he got in.
Perhaps.
GRAHAM BROWN LET himself in, paused a second in the hallway, then closed the front door.
From the sitting room he could hear the sound of the TV. Someone was still up.
He wandered into the small living room, almost tripping over a large doll that had most of its hair missing.
One half-open eye fixed him in a glassy stare.
Brown kicked at the object irritably.
Slumped in one armchair was his father, snoring loudly.
On the sofa, his mother lay with a thick cardigan on her feet to ward off the chill. The gas fire had been broken for as long as he could remember.
Brown crossed to his father and looked down at the sleeping man: his mouth was open wide, his head lolled back.
The remote for the TV was still clasped in one of his large hands.
As Brown prized it free, he saw that there were a couple of grazes on the knuckles of the man’s right hand.
He flicked channels.
Fuck all on. Never was.
He glanced at his mother.
There was a red mark beneath her left eye, already beginning to turn a livid purple.
He saw several spots of blood on her lower lip.
Brown looked at his parents indifferently for a moment, then passed into the kitchen.
Plates were stacked both on the kitchen table and the draining board.
Some had been washed, others still bore the remains of food.
The grey water in the washing-up bowl was freezing cold.
A mug handle protruded from the reeking liquid.
He took a glass from a cupboard and poured himself some milk from the fridge. It tasted slightly sour and he checked the date stamp on the carton.
“Cunt,” he hissed.
He drank it anyway, then left the dirty glass in the sink.
As he made his way back through the living room he paused and picked up the remote once more. He eased the volume up several notches, then tossed the device away and went upstairs.
The door of his sisters’ room was open.
&n
bsp; One of the girls was asleep on the top bunk, dreaming the dreams of any other nine year old. The eight year old was sitting on the floor undressing a Barbie that had one arm missing.
She looked up at him as he passed, heading towards his parents’ room.
He found his mother’s handbag on her bedside table.
Brown undid it swiftly and pulled out her purse, peering inside: a couple of used scratch cards an old and useless lottery ticket; two fives and a ten.
He grinned and took the tenner, tucking it into his pocket. Then he replaced the purse and headed for his bedroom.
As he undressed he could still hear the sound of the TV blaring away downstairs.
He pulled the knickers from his pocket, sniffing at the gusset.
He slid them beneath his pillow.
SHE HAD NO idea how long the baby had been crying.
Half an hour?
Longer?
Donna lay on her bed in a T-shirt, puffing away at the cigarette, the cacophony rattling inside her ears.
She took a drag on her cigarette. With her other hand she pulled gently at the small silver nose-ring in her right nostril.
It could be linked, if she wished, to any of the five earrings in her left ear or the three in her right.
She slid her hand up beneath her T-shirt and touched the ring in her navel. It still felt tender and would do for another few days. She had to remember to keep turning the ring in case the flesh healed around it.
“Shut the fucking kid up, will you?”
The voice tore through the darkness.
Her father.
“You shut him up.”
Her mother.
“Fuck sake! What’s wrong with him?”
“He probably wants feeding.”
“Then fucking feed him!”
“You go and do his bottle, then, you lazy cunt. I’ve had him all day.”
The baby was still crying.
“Fucking change him too, he stinks. That’s probably what he’s crying about.”
“You fucking stink, you bastard.”
There was a new sound.
A hollow banging on the wall.
“That’s that old cunt next door,” her father rasped.
“He’s woken her up now.”
More banging on the wall.
“Fuck off, you old bitch!” her father roared.
He banged back.
