by Shaun Hutson
With a sudden movement he slammed the cat against the rear wall of the garage. The impact stunned the already weakened creature and it hung limply in his grip.
Thompson moved with remarkable speed and precision.
He grabbed the cat’s right forepaw in his left hand, slid a nail against the pad and brought the hammer down with tremendous force.
The nail pierced the pad and skewered the cat to the brickwork.
It squealed in agony and the pain seemed to galvanize it into action once more, but Thompson took another nail and repeated the procedure with its other paw.
Blood spurted from the pad, some of it splashing onto his sleeve, but he drove the nail home, his second blow missing and pulverizing one of the cat’s toes.
It shrieked again and twisted madly, secured by the nails.
Its hind legs rendered virtually useless by the air-gun slugs -pin-wheeled, but Thompson grabbed first the right, then the left.
“Let me have a go,” said Harper.
Thompson handed him the hammer and a couple of nails.
“Better do it quick,” the older lad said.
Harper pushed the point against the pad of the right hind leg and then struck as hard as he could with the hammer.
He missed and smashed a bone in the cat’s leg. The strident shattering reverberated around the inside of the garage.
Thompson chuckled.
The flailing left hind paw caught Harper across the face, the claws gashing his skin just below his eye.
“Fucking bastard,” he snarled and struck again.
This time the hammer connected cleanly and the nail punctured flesh, but it merely protruded from the cat’s paw.
He was forced to strike again to bury the steel prong in the brickwork behind.
He drove the fourth nail in and stepped back.
The cat was spreadeagled on the wall, held there by the rusty nails like some kind of badly mounted hunting trophy.
It was mewing softly, its eyes half closed.
The little bell on its collar tinkled every time its head moved.
There were spots of blood on the wall and floor.
Harper touched a hand to the scratches on his face and winced.
He reached into his pocket for the Stanley knife and jabbed it towards the cat’s exposed belly, but Thompson grabbed his arm.
“Use the rifle,” he said quietly.
Harper picked up the weapon, broke it and pushed in a pellet.
“Not so close,” said Thompson, mockingly.
“Stand back there by the doorway.”
He and Mackenzie also retreated, watching as Harper raised the rifle to his shoulder.
“Aim for its eye,” Thompson told him.
HARPER FIRED.
The pellet slammed into the wall six inches to the right of the cat.
A chorus of jeers greeted the miss.
Harper reloaded and fired again.
The second pellet tore off part of the cat’s left ear.
It let out a renewed wail of pain and tried to struggle against the nails that held it steady.
Harper grinned.
“Come on,” Mackenzie snapped, grabbing at the gun.
“Give us ago.”
“One more go,” Harper hissed, shoving another pellet in. He snapped the barrel shut, pulled the stock into his shoulder and aimed.
The pellet powered into the cat’s mouth and blasted away one of its upper canine teeth.
Blood filled its mouth and ran down its throat.
The noises it was making lessened in volume.
It was gurgling.
Mackenzie took the air rifle and aimed.
He missed the head, but drilled a pellet into the body.
He did the same with the second.
And the third.
“One hundred and eighty V he shouted, waving the gun above his head.
“Fucking arse hole Thompson grinned, snatching the .22 from him. The older youth loaded it and handed it to Tina.
“Go on,” he said, presenting the weapon to her.
She shook her head.
“See if you can hit it,” Thompson persisted.
Tina took a final drag on her cigarette, then ground the butt beneath her trainers.
“Take the rifle,” Thompson urged.
She looked at the weapon. Then at the cat.
Then at Thompson.
“What do I do?” she said, a faint smile playing on her lips.
“I’ll show you how to hold it,” he told her.
“Imagine it’s a cock, you’ll soon get the hang of it.” Harper sniggered.
“Fuck off,” Tina hissed, swinging the rifle around to face him.
Harper ran.
She grinned, then felt Thompson’s hand on her shoulder, manoeuvring her back to face the cat.
“Look down the barrel,” he told her.
“Line the front sight up with the groove in the rear sight.” He was holding the weapon, his hand over hers.
“Now aim for its eye,” he told her, his mouth close to her ear.
She could see the glistening orb.
The cat’s head was barely moving.
“Squeeze the trigger,” Thompson instructed.
“Don’t jerk it. Just squeeze.”
She did as she was told.
The loud crack reverberated inside the garage.
The pellet struck the cat’s collar and dented the little bell. It tinkled forlornly.
The cat meowed weakly. It was whining like a sick child now, the sound more or less constant; a discordant note that had no end.
“Good shot,” Thompson said, taking the gun from her and reloading.
“One more,” Tina pleaded and he allowed her to have the rifle again.
She raised it to her shoulder and sighted it.
Squeezed the trigger.
The pellet hit the cat in the right eye.
The projectile burst the bulging orb. Blood and clear liquid sprayed into the air.
Tina turned excitedly to Thompson, who was grinning.
Even Mackenzie and Harper managed some complimentary comments.
“Looks like you’re the winner,” Thompson told her.
“Are you going to give me a prize?” Tina wanted to know.
Thompson took the gun from her and turned away from the garage.
“It’s still alive,” Harper called.
“So what?” Thompson grinned.
“It’s not going anywhere, is it?”
They were all laughing as they wandered off.
THERE WERE TWO others in the classroom with Graham Brown.
He recognized one.
An older boy, almost fifteen.
Gates or Bates or something.
Who fucking cared anyway?
The other one was a girl roughly the same age as Brown himself.
Tall. Brown hair. Thin face. Thick eyebrows.
He glanced across at her and grinned.
It looked as if someone had stuck two caterpillars above her eyes.
He kept expecting them to crawl away as she sat over the piece of paper, her biro scratching across it.
At the front of the class, reading, was Mr. Albon.
Games master.
Ginger-haired little cunt.
He took most of the detentions. At least most that Brown had been present for.
Stocky. Red cheeked. Big nose.
Fucking big nose.
The clock on the wall above the door ticked loudly in the silence of the classroom.
How much longer?
Brown picked at a spot on his cheek.
He looked down at the sheet of paper before him: the school rules.
That was the standard punishment in detention. Copying out the school fucking rules.
He’d scribbled barely a dozen lines.
Fuck the rules.
Fuck the school.
Fuck Mr. Albon.
The teacher had done his customary patrol o
f the room, hands clasped behind his back, but not a word had been uttered by any of the four residents of the room during the sixty minutes they had occupied it.
“All right,” Mr. Albon said finally. Tack your stuff away and go.”
He checked his own watch against the wall clock, then watched as Brown and the other two stuffed their pens and pads hurriedly into their bags.
Sheets of paper were left on the desks for inspection.
“And I don’t want to see any of you back here again, understood?” he called as they filed towards the door.
“Seeds on stony ground’ was the phrase that sprung to mind.
“Flogging a dead horse’ was another.
Brown barged out into the corridor, then strode for the main entrance beyond.
He stepped out into the playground.
On the school field beyond, a dozen or so boys were playing football.
Brown wondered about joining them, then decided against it.
His stomach rumbled protestingly.
He needed food.
He decided to call at the chip shop on the way home. It was better than the shit his mother cooked; that is when she could be bothered.
As he crossed the playground he noticed there was still a car parked in the area reserved for teachers’ vehicles.
Brown knew that the silver grey Montego belonged to Albon.
He checked behind him and saw that the games master hadn’t emerged from the building yet. Brown ran towards the car.
He hawked loudly, then spat on the windscreen.
With unerring accuracy he projected a second glutinous mass of mucus onto the driver’s door handle.
The temptation was too great.
He pulled the bunch of keys from his pocket and raked them along one side of the car.
Chuckling, he ran off.
“DID SHE GO?” Barbara Eustace wanted to know.
Ronni nodded and picked up the dog, passing it to the older woman as if it were a child.
The Highland terrier licked at Barbara’s face as she held it close to her and whispered lovingly in its floppy ear.
“Good girl,” she cooed.
“We don’t want you making a mess inside, do we?”
The dog looked almost as old as its owner. The fur on its little face was greying around the muzzle and it moved with difficulty when walking.
One of the staff walked the dog twice a day for Barbara. It was hardly an unpleasant chore. Two hundred yards and the animal was fit to drop. Ronni had tried throwing sticks for it, but discovered it was quicker for her to fetch them herself.
It seemed to be in good health though and the other residents had no problem with its presence. Most of the time Barbara kept it in her room, where it slept in its small basket.
Otherwise, it trotted around as efficiently as its arthritic little legs would allow, following its wheelchair-bound owner and gratefully accepting any snacks offered to it by the other residents.
Ronni couldn’t remember hearing it bark more than a dozen times since it had arrived with Barbara three months ago.
Then again, she reasoned, any sustained noise would probably cause the collapse of its little lungs.
Its red collar bore its name in silver letters:
MOLLY.
As Ronni pushed the wheelchair along the corridor she glanced at her watch.
Almost eight p.m.
She and Alison were due to finish their shift any time now.
And then?
She exhaled wearily.
Home?
“What’s wrong, Veronica?” Barbara asked.
“You can call me Ronni, you know. Everyone else does.”
“You were christened Veronica, you should be called Veronica. I wouldn’t expect you to call me Babs.”
Ronni chuckled.
“I wouldn’t dream of calling you Babs,” she affirmed. They turned a corner, heading for Barbara’s room.
“What makes you think there’s something wrong, Barbara?” Ronni wanted to know.
“An educated guess. I’m quite perceptive when it comes to judging people’s moods. I always have been.”
“Are you speaking as a former JP now?”
Barbara smiled.
“How long were you on the bench?” Ronni enquired.
“Fifteen years. I saw lots of people, Veronica. You get to know their moods the same way as you learn if someone’s lying or not. It’s instinct, I suppose.”
“Did you give up because of your accident?”
“Oh, heavens, no. I’d already been retired for more than ten years before the crash.”
“Did they ever find the other driver?”
“No. All I know is he can still walk. He was driving on the wrong side of the road. I swerved to avoid him, I barely touched his car. I was the one who ended up wrapped around a tree. He didn’t even stop to see if I was dead or alive.”
They reached the door of Barbara’s room and Ronni pushed it open. Barbara wheeled herself through, then lowered Molly down onto the floor.
The terrier waddled across to its basket and clambered in.
SHAUN HUT SON
“Will you be OK now, Barbara?” Ronni asked.
The older woman nodded.
“I’ll be fine,” she said.
“We both will.” She nodded in the direction of her dog.
“See you tomorrow, Barbara,” Ronni said and closed the door behind her.
As she headed back along the corridor she heard a car pulling up outside Shelby House.
Gazing through the nearest window, she watched as the driver climbed out.
GORDON FAULKNER SIPPED at his mug of tea and looked around the small staff room.
The walls were bare apart from a couple of watercolours painted by one of the residents. Faulkner focused on a crack in the magnolia wall and traced it with his gaze as if he were following the path of a vein across flesh.
“We should think about getting more staff for this place,” he said, glancing at Ronni.
“Why?” she wanted to know.
“Three of us to look after nine residents is plenty.”
“But there aren’t three of us on these night shifts, are there?”
Faulkner protested.
“When have any of us had any trouble?”
“I’d have thought this was a piece of cake for you after working at the hospital, Gordon,” Alison added.
Prior to his appointment at Shelby House, Faulkner had worked for five years as a porter at Kempston General Hospital. Mainly in A&.E.
He’d handed in his notice the night after he’d helped wheel his nineteen-year-old nephew into surgery with multiple neck and facial wounds.
The product of a fight in a club.
The lad had died in his arms, his jugular vein severed by glass.
Faulkner’s sister had taken her own life two months later.
He’d worked at Shelby House for the past eight years, joining the staff only days after his twenty-sixth birthday.
“Once the patients are in bed for the night, what the hell is there to do?” Ronni asked.
“I think the night shift’s are peaceful. I quite enjoy them.”
“Then you do tonight,” Faulkner snapped.
“Who rattled your cage today?” Ronni enquired.
“You’ve been like a bear with a sore head ever since you got here.” She rinsed her own mug in the sink and set it down to drip-dry.
“At least you haven’t got to take Molly for a walk,” she told him.
“I’ve already done it.”
“Did you have to stand and watch it have a crap so you could report back to Barbara?” he grunted.
“You’d better be a bit more cheerful with the residents, Gordon.” There was a severity in Ronni’s tone that made him look warily at her.
“Miserable sod,” Alison offered, pulling on her coat.
“Wait a minute,” Ronni said, a slight smile touching her lips.
“I know
why you don’t want to work tonight. There’s a match on TV, isn’t there?”
Faulkner shrugged.
“I hadn’t noticed,” he murmured.
“You bloody liar.” Ronni chuckled. She reached for the paper and flipped it open at the TV listings.
“Eight o’clock, ITV, Arsenal versus Spurs. Watch it in the day room.
Most of the residents will be watching it anyway,” she insisted.
“No way. Don Tanner will want to bet on the game and Jack Fuller’s a Spurs supporter,” Faulkner announced.
“If they beat us he’ll never let it rest. I’ll end up getting a load of stick and losing money.”
The two women laughed and headed for the door.
“Gordon,” Ronni said, pausing at the exit.
“Just keep your eye on Janice Holland, will you?” She told him about the incident that afternoon.
Faulkner nodded.
“She doesn’t want Harry to know,” Ronni insisted.
“No problem. Go on then, home you go.”
He walked to the main exit with them, then waved them off, retreated inside and locked the large door.
Outside, it was colder than Ronni had realized. As she spoke her breath clouded in the air.
“Do you fancy a quick drink before I run you home?” she asked.
“We could nip down to the Horseshoes. It’s only five minutes from here.”
Alison nodded.
“Not in any hurry to get home?” she murmured.
Ronni exhaled wearily.
“Just a quick one then,” Alison said.
They climbed into the Fiesta and Ronni started the engine.
The car moved away from Shelby House, the gravel crunching beneath the tyres.
THE THREE BARS inside the Horseshoes were busy for mid-week. Ronni was surprised at the amount of noise coming, in particular, from the public bar. As well as the customary backdrop of music from the jukebox and the constant crack of pool balls, there was also an unusually loud din of conversation filtering through.
Loud laughter was punctuated by shouts.
Ronni heard the sound of breaking glass.
She sipped at her Bacardi and Coke and glanced in the direction of the racket.
“It sounds as if someone’s got something to celebrate,” she said quietly.
Alison nodded and lifted her own glass, the ice clinking against it as she drank.
“So, what would you do in my position, Alison?” Ronni wanted to know.
“You never did tell me.”
“I can’t say, Ronni. Unless you’re involved, it’s difficult.”
