by Lynch, H. G.
Oh shit.
I paused halfway to the door, dread and fear curling my gut into a knot. The slamming on the door came again. “Oi, Brogan! Open the fuckin’ door! I know you’re in there! I can fuckin’ sense you! Let me in!”
I squeezed my eyes shut for a second, praying to whatever God there might be, or even to the Big Guy downstairs, that it was a nightmare. I knew that voice. I knew who was behind that door, and he was some serious bad news. The kind of bad news that had almost gotten me killed before, and I’d hoped I’d never see again.
As I hesitated, he pounded the door again, yelling. He was going to wake up the whole damn building, and eventually, someone would call the cops. For all I knew, the bastard was already hiding from the cops, and if they picked him up, he was going back to jail. I didn’t doubt he’d done something illegal in the sixteen months since I’d seen him last. But, as nuts as the guy was, he was the only family I had left. I couldn’t turn him out to get locked up behind bars or chased down by whatever drug dealer or pimp he’d pissed off this time.
I swore violently as I flipped the chain off the door and flung it open before the moron on the other side could start beating on it again. The man barged inside and slammed the door shut behind him, pushing me out of the way. I stumbled back, already feeling a headache taking up a place in my frontal lobe.
“Hey, Uncle Brent. Nice to see you again too. Tea? No?”
The man turned around and planted his hands on his hips. He was taller than me by a few inches, lean but wiry strong, with greasy-looking black hair curling to his shoulders, streaked with silver. His face bore the scantest resemblance to my father’s, to mine. There was a scraggly goatee around his mouth and chin, several hoops glittering in his ears, and a smear of blood leaking from his burst lip. He was wearing dirt-stained jeans with ragged holes in the knees, an equally stained and worn black t-shirt, and a grimy leather jacket as old as I was. His heavy, steel-capped boots clomped on the floor as he walked.
He grinned at me, causing more blood to trickle into his goatee. “Still a funny guy, I see, Rogue,” he said, using my old nickname.
I hated that name, and he knew it. I glared at him. “I just go by Brogan now. And my roommate will be back soon, so whatever you want, whatever trouble you’re in, deal with it elsewhere.”
Brent chuckled as if I was joking and deliberately plopped himself down on the sofa, peering over the arm at me. “How’d you know I’m in trouble?”
I crossed my arms, remaining standing in the middle of the room, just in case. “The only time you ever come see me is when you need something from me, or you’re hiding from someone. Who’d you piss off this time? Jim? Grant? Or did the cops finally bust your stash-house?”
“Well…” Brent scratched at the back of his head, his eyes narrowed as he regarded the ceiling. “Actually, I may’ve, uh, borrowed a little something from Red. I just need a place to crash for a couple of days until I can scrape the money together to pay him back.”
I closed my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose in exasperation and more than a little anger. Red was a drug dealer and a pimp, a nasty one at that. His real name was Andre Havarez, but he’d gotten the nickname Red after he had taken out four of a rival dealer’s guys in a knife fight. Story was, he’d been so covered in blood, he’d looked like the devil raised from Hell.
I’d met the guy once—not a pleasant experience—and I’d be fucked sideways by a transvestite with a thorny branch before I went anywhere near him again.
I couldn’t believe Brent had borrowed money off him. Okay, scrap that. I could totally believe it. The man had vices—a lot of them. Cheap booze, expensive women, weed, and ecstasy. He mostly stayed away from the harder stuff—like heroin and meth. He saved that shit for his “clients.”
Brent was a dealer too, though he sometimes “consulted” for Red, which was how he was able to borrow money off him. Still, doing a few favours for the guy didn’t mean Red would go easy on him if he didn’t pay the money back, and fast.
“How much?” I asked, weary and already dreading the answer. My headache was a full-blown rock concert in my temples, minus the actual music, just the thumping bass. Like listening to Rammstein with the volume turned way up.
“Hmm? What’d you say?” Brent looked up at me. He’d been surreptitiously examining my shiny new IPod on the sofa.
I stalked over and snatched it away from him. I shoved it in my pocket and crossed my arms again, glowering down at him. “I asked how much do you owe Red.”
“Ah. Not that much, really. Just, you know…few hundred.”
Bullshit. He wouldn’t have come to me for a few hundred. He’d have mined his clients by upping his prices for a few days. He worked a part of town that could afford it. His turf was just around the prep school where all the angry, rich kids hung out and looked for ways to get back at daddy for ignoring them, or just for ways to forget themselves and their piss-poor little problems.
I curled my lip into something like a sneer. “Yeah, right. Try that again, Brent. How much do you really owe?”
He sighed, picking at the edge of his split lip, rubbed his neck, and sighed again.
I waited.
Finally, he grunted and mumbled, “Maybe a couple grand.”
“How much exactly?”
He sighed. “About fifteen grand,” he admitted.
I groaned.
He held up his hands and hastily added, “But I’ve got about half of it tucked away someplace safe. I just need a little more time to get the rest. If you could just let me stay here for a few days…or you know, if you could spare a little cash, I’d be out of your hair tomorrow. Come on, Rogue. You’re my favourite nephew.”
“I’m your only nephew,” I countered, growling. “And I’ve only got a couple hundred to spare at the minute. I just got a new bike, after what happened to the last one,” I said pointedly.
Brent knew what I was talking about, and made a rueful face. “Hey, I said I was sorry about that, but you know that wasn’t really my fault. I told you before we went into that place that leaving that thing on the street was a bad idea.”
I gritted my teeth. “You didn’t say it would get fucking torched while we were inside, talking you out of another debt.”
He looked set to shoot back, but I held up my hand, silencing him. I didn’t want excuses, and I didn’t want to re-hash the past. I just wanted him gone, preferably before Jet got home, or before Red found him there, and I got caught in the crossfire…again.
“Look, I can give you two grand right now, but that’s all I got, and you need to leave. You can’t be staying here, Brent. Not after last time. I’ve got a flatmate now, and he wouldn’t take well with you bringing this shit in here. There’s a cheap hotel a couple of streets over. Stay there tonight, and I’ll see if I can dig up some more money for you, okay?”
Brent nodded eagerly. Getting to his feet, he clasped my hands in his rough ones. “You’re a real life-saver, Rogue, you really are. I dunno what I’d do without you. You’re a saint, lad.”
I pulled my hands away and waved him off. “Yeah, yeah. Just promise me you won’t come back here. Ever. If I get some more money together, I’ll come to you. Got it?”
He nodded again, and I went through to the back of the flat, where mine and Jet’s rooms were, on either side of the bathroom. I had the smaller room, because Jet was the size of a tank and needed the space. I didn’t mind. I didn’t have much stuff anyway. A couple of band posters tacked to the navy-blue walls, some clothes in the wardrobe, and a stash of condoms in the nightstand. Not that I had or could even get any STDs, but some girls wouldn’t let me in them without protection anyway. There was also a photo of my parents and me from when I was younger in a silver frame, hidden away in the bottom drawer of the nightstand, under a pile of boxers and DVDs.
I didn’t look at the photo often. Maybe a couple of times a year. Always on the anniversary of their deaths. I didn’t like to think about it. I didn’t tal
k about it. Not even Jet knew what had happened to them, and he didn’t push. That was part of what made him a good flatmate. He didn’t bug me about personal shit.
I walked into my room and opened my wardrobe. Ducking inside, I tossed a couple pairs of shoes out of the bottom and found the loose panel. I pried it up, uncovering the small cubbyhole where I kept my cash, a spare key for the front door, and a disposable mobile phone—never knew when I’d need it, but I liked to be prepared.
I took out one of the thick rolls of cash, money I’d earned at various jobs or picked up doing odd errands for shady people, and plucked out a bunch of twenties. After counting out Brent’s two grand, I had about fourteen-hundred left. Obviously, I wasn’t giving him all of my savings. I’d find the rest of the money for him somewhere else—if I had to. I knew a lady who’d pay me good money for a fun night, but that was an absolute last resort. Despite what I was, and what I did, I hated the idea of selling myself like that. I wasn’t going to reduce myself to some rich housewife’s whore unless I was damn out of other options.
Returning to the main room, I found Brent pawing through the fridge. He came out of it holding a beer, nudged the door shut with his hip, and turned to me as he twisted the cap off.
I slapped the money down on the counter. “There’s your money. Now get out of here. I’ve got shit to do.”
Brent slugged back his beer and slid the money off the countertop. He grinned at me, wiping his grubby hand across his mouth. “Thanks, bud. I really owe you one.”
As he headed for the door, I muttered, “You owe me two grand actually.” Either he didn’t hear me, or he pretended not to. I didn’t push, just glad he was leaving.
He paused in the doorway, frowning, as if he had something else to say. Instead, he hesitated, and then shook his head. He flashed me another grin and said, “Thanks again, Brogan. You’re a life-saver.”
I didn’t doubt it.
As soon as he was gone, I sighed in relief and collapsed against the back of the sofa. I ran a hand through my hair, cursing. This is going to be trouble, I thought, and not the good kind.
Chapter Five
** Kester **
“Thanks for the lift, Zack. See you later.” I hopped out and slammed the car door. He laid into the horn of his silver Peugeot as he drove away, undoubtedly waking all the neighbours—again. I grinned as I made my way across the empty road to the pavement. A gust of wind rattled dry leaves down the street, swirling strands of my hair around my face, and I shivered. It was chilly, a sign of the impending autumn. The oily sky was choked with frosty grey clouds swimming across the leering face of the half-full moon.
My street was lined by small, comfortable low-rent houses all cosied in behind low fences and high hedges, lit by a handful of abused lampposts. The one closest to my house had the word SKANK written in black marker. I liked to believe it wasn’t aimed at me, since I wasn’t actually a skank. But in truth, I didn’t care what some random punk thought of me, though I knew perfectly well who’d written it.
There was a boy, about sixteen, who lived down the street and leered at me from the window every time I walked past. Sometimes he made crude gestures at me. I usually ignored him. Apart from him, I rarely saw any of my neighbours. I occasionally got nasty looks from the old lady next door when she came out to prune her hedge, or if I happened to run into the woman from across the street while she was walking her toddler home from nursery, she crossed the road when she saw me coming. They were all such lovely people. It was a very tight-knit community.
Note my sarcasm.
I kind of hoped Zack’s honking had at least woken the old hag next door. I was sure the bitch thought I was doing drugs, prostituting myself, or something. Let her believe what she wanted to. At least she was too scared of me to come over and give me a lecture about proper behaviour. My mother did that often enough—hence why trips home were rare for me.
The windows of my house—well, actually Evie’s house that her loaded parents had bought for her for her eighteenth birthday—were dark. I pushed through the rusting iron gate and walked up the cracked path to the front door, digging in my tiny black handbag for my keys as I went. It seemed impossible that they should be able to hide from me in such a small bag. The grass was getting a little long, I noted. I’d have to get out the lawnmower and cut it soon. Maybe next weekend.
I was so focused on the grass and finding my keys that it wasn’t until I was standing right at the front door that I noticed the shadow of someone lurking by corner of the house. My heart jumped into my throat, and I gasped, stumbling back a step until my heel sank into the damp grass. The shadow shifted, and I froze, eyes wide, staring into the darkness. I couldn’t make out any features, just the vague shape of a man.
I was barely breathing, my heart panicking like a trapped bird in my chest. I didn’t dare blink, didn’t dare twitch. The neighbourhood was nice, but it was only a couple of streets over from a less nice part of town. Druggies and assorted other nasties had been known to wander around at night, looking for houses to break into or people to rough up. I made for a lovely target, a girl alone in a quiet neighbourhood, but the criminal sort tended to avoid picking on me because I looked like the type to carry a knife, or at least pepper spray. Little did they know that my best and only weapon was my extremely heavy boots, which I maintained could crush someone’s skull if needs be.
I continued staring at the shady man standing in my garden, wondering distantly what he wanted from me and exactly what kind of bad guy he was—druggie, robber, or rapist. A druggie I could probably fight off, they tended to be weedy and got nervous when someone fought back. But a robber or rapist? Not a chance. I wondered if I could possibly get my phone out and call nine-nine-nine before the guy attacked.
I was just getting ready to risk it when, suddenly, he vanished. I stayed frozen for a long minute, heart pounding, and my hand on my bag. Then I blinked twice and stared some more into the shadowy space where I’d seen him, just to make sure. No, he was gone. I let out a slow breath and felt my eyes sting with irrational tears.
Terrified of where the guy might have gone, and if he was circling around the house to get me from behind, I jammed my hand into my bag and finally snagged my ring of keys. It took me a second to find the right key in the darkness, and then my hand was shaking so badly it took me three attempts to get the key in the lock and turn it. The whole time, I had a creeping, tingling feeling running down my spine, as if the stranger might lunge out of the shadows and stab me in the back at any second.
At last, I got the door open. I barged through it, whipped around and slammed it shut, immediately sliding the chain on while I fought with the key to lock the door again. When it finally clicked, I backed away and hit the light switch on the wall, flooding the hallway with light. Then, still clutching my keys, as if I might use them to poke someone’s eye out, I went through the rest of the house, flipping on lights. The living room, the kitchen, and then upstairs to flip on the hallway light, my bedroom, and even the bathroom. The only room I left alone was Evie’s room. The rest of the house was shining like a beacon.
Then I went back downstairs to double-check that I’d locked the front door. I closed the kitchen blinds and the living room curtains, just in case. When I was satisfied that I was as secure as I could be, I slunk up to my room and pulled down the blinds there too. I wasn’t normally easy to freak out, and I’d had some brushes with unsavoury characters before—hard not to when you hung out in the crowd I did. There was just something about that guy I’d seen, something that scared the holy hell out of me.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been that scared. Usually, I loved being frightened—horror movies, crazy rollercoasters and breaking into abandoned buildings were all some of my favourite pastimes. This was different. I had finally stopped shaking by the time I dumped my bag on the floor, my keys on my dresser, and sat down on my bed. I’d checked Evie’s room—she wasn’t in, so I was assuming she was staying with Ja
mes.
I bent over to unzip my boots and yanked them off, tucking them under my bed. I stood up and went to look in the mirror on my dresser. My hair was a bit of a mess, my eyeliner slightly smudged, and my green eyes looked a little wild, but I was okay. Taking a deep breath, I glanced around my room to make sure nothing had been moved or stolen. The band posters tacked up on my red walls were undisturbed, the black spread on my bed was only wrinkled from me sitting on it, the black wood dresser and wardrobe were unharmed. Even my TV and stereo perched on top of the low bookcase, crammed with paranormal romance books and horror movie DVDs, were fine.
I relaxed. I ran a hand through my hair and wandered into the hallway to grab a couple of towels from the laundry cupboard, then headed to the bathroom. I locked the door behind me out of habit, even though there was nobody in the house. I laid out one of the towels on the floor around the bath and sat the other on the closed lid of the toilet. The bathroom was always a little cold, so I turned on the shower and let the room start to fill with warm steam before undressing.
After my shower, I crawled into bed and fell asleep quickly, tumbling headlong into a series of bizarre dreams, one of which involved a talking duck with a Russian accent and a machine gun. I have no idea what that was about. Maybe my brain was telling me I had a secret, deep-rooted fear of ducks that I wasn’t aware of.
Anyway, after the evil duck dream, my mind settled into something a bit more normal.
I was standing in my room with the light off, staring out the window into the front garden. The street was dark, none of the streetlamps on, and the only light spilled from a large, grey moon. I looked down, and I could see a shadow in the garden. There was a person, looking up at me from the grass, but oddly, I wasn’t frightened.
The floor in the hallway creaked, and I glanced toward my bedroom door, but the door was closed. I waited for another creak, but the house was silent. I turned back to the window and looked down at the garden, but the mysterious shadow was gone. I felt an obscure sense of disappointment. The hallway floor creaked again, and when I turned, I saw my bedroom door was wide open.
