“I know. It's all right. I'm sorry for bringing it up. Any time you do want to talk, I'm here.” Toby squeezed his hand again.
“Love you, man.”
“Yeah, fucking love you too.”
A few moments of silence passed.
“We'll be all right, you know, Terry Jones.” Toby laughed until his ribs hurt.
Russell smiled, waiting patiently for Toby to finish laughing. “You can laugh, Mr Aiden Drake. There are shitloads of Jones’ in the phone book. Take a pissing mastermind to find me. Besides, it's better than Drake. What are you, a fucking duck?”
“Knob off, Terry. It appealed to me, all right? Don't be mean.”
“You started it.”
“Yeah, well, I'm finishing it now.” Toby chuckled then sobered. “Seriously, though, we'll take each day as it comes, yeah? And if, later on, we need to speak to someone about this crap, well, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it. No harm in seeing a shrink, is there? If it means working through it and living without all that shit in our heads, it's worth a try.”
Russell sighed. “Thought the same thing myself. Anyway, shut up about it for now, yeah?”
“Yep. Time to move on.”
“It is.” Russell blew out a long breath.
“S'pose I'd better put the rice on, then,” Toby said.
“Yeah. Boil in the bag by any chance?”
“Well, yeah. May as well use it up, eh?”
“Whatever you say, mate. Teaching yourself to cook properly my arse.”
Toby laughed and pushed up off the sofa. “And what a fine arse it is too.”
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Epilogue
The boy, now a man, stood in the disused car park, still disused and still with ratty yellowed grass bordering the asphalt. It looked the same length, and he wondered if someone came to cut it every now and then. He couldn't imagine why they would—this place was as desolate as it had been seven years ago. More so, in fact, now that he took the time to study it properly. Great cracks marred the ground in places, big enough to turn your ankle in if you weren't paying attention. And he would. Didn't want to get his shoes scuffed—a far cry from all those years ago when he'd worn footwear with holes in them.
Funny how life changes.
He walked toward the grass, stopped where the man had back then, and stared across the river at the bridge. That, too, looked exactly the same, except for some new spray-paint art and a little more mould. Dark grey smoke belched from inside, bringing back memories, and he smiled.
That bridge will always keep someone dry.
Turning to walk toward the bridge so he could cross the river to the other side, he took a deep breath, stomach churning. It had taken quite a bit of courage to come here. Memories he'd suppressed, despite the counselling, had prevented him from returning. His reason for gathering his nerve today had come from him spotting someone who could have been Pete. A whole slew of recollections had assaulted him, and he thought about the old man and what he could be doing now. Whether he was even still alive. He hadn't asked Darrow about Pete for a while.
A gentle breeze laced with fine specks of rain pushed him gently as he walked the bridge, and he glanced down into the river, remembering how he'd likened it to melted milk chocolate. Was it wishful thinking of the boy he once was, hungry as he'd been that night, because the river looked green and thick with filth now. Refuse sailed on its watery journey, MacDonald's drink cups, a lollipop stick, a plastic Pepsi bottle. Green and brown fronds attached to the riverside stretched across the water, wavering with the current, catching the lolly stick and dragging it beneath the surface.
Almost like him, really, if his brother hadn't taken him under his wing after all that shit with Frost.
He stopped in the centre of the bridge and leaned his forearms on the ledge, staring over at the London Eye in the distance. He'd been on it, could afford the fare now, and it wasn't anything to write home about. Oh, he'd seen the city from the top, how vast the place was, but he'd barely been on the damn thing and it was time to get off again.
No bang for your buck these days.
Seeing things with an adult eye was so different from that of a child, wasn't it? What was glamorous then certainly wasn't now, and the sparkle of life tended to taint when reality reared its ugly head. He thought about that for a minute. His whole existence, up until being reunited with his brother, had been one long, freakish nightmare, yet he'd still had hope, had still seen the beauty in things and wished that one day he'd get a break.
And he had.
He went by the name of John now, a good old average name that didn't arouse suspicion. John Libere. He wasn't French, didn't even attempt to sound French when he spoke, but his surname meant “liberated", and that's what he became the day he moved into the flat in Camden with Ben. His brother had changed his name, too, choosing the same surname and going by the first name of Alex.
Official name changing was a good thing when you had people chasing your arse.
John sighed and continued walking, making it to the other side of the river, his hair only a little askew from the wind, a little damp from the rain. His suit, covered in a fine mist of individual, tiny raindrops that reminded him of fuzz, would need to go to the dry cleaners tomorrow.
He didn't like the smell of dried rain on his clothing. It brought back too many memories of nights spent out in harsh weather, chilled to the damn bone and wishing he had a warm bed to sleep in.
So why come here today? Why let the past back in?
Climbing down the bank, shoes sliding in the wet mud, he stood on a path he'd stood on so many times before, one he could have stretched out on as a kid but couldn't now. Too tall. He peered beneath the bridge. An oil drum, much the same as the one from years ago but painted yellow, the top lip blackened and rusty, held a fire that smelled of coal not wood. Whoever had lit it was a lucky bastard if he'd got a hold of coal.
John plunged his hands in his trouser pockets and walked under the bridge. As he approached the drum, he saw two feet poking out, covered in shoes much like his own. Black and shiny. Decent, no holes. Ankles encased in grey socks peeked out from beneath the hem of black trousers, and John smiled again, knowing no tramp warmed himself beside the fire this day.
Abreast of the drum, he looked down at the man sitting with his back against the bridge wall. A man who didn't look like a head sitting on top of a bundle of rags—one who didn't have shoulder-length grey hair but a neat, short cut like so many of the elderly today, and a trimmed goatee beard.
“Hello, Pete,” John said, tears misting his vision.
The old man looked up, eyes rheumy, and he narrowed them. “Fraser?”
That name sounded alien, seeing as he hadn't been called that in so long. “Yeah, it's Fraser.”
“My God, boy. What are you doing here?” Pete struggled to stand, flapping John's hand away as he reached to help him up. “Get out of it. I may be old, but I ain't fucking dead yet.” He stood as upright as his old body allowed, shoulders stooped, back rounded.
“I came to reminisce. Just once before we move away.”
“Ah. Finally getting out of the big jungle, are you?” Pete warmed his hands over the fire, eyeing John with a sideways glance.
“Yeah. Didn't expect to find you here. Thought you'd gone into sheltered housing after Darrow helped you out.”
Pete smiled, showing pristine dentures. “I did, but old habits die hard, boy. Besides, I have to keep my eye out for the vans, don't I? They're white now, you know.”
“Are they? Have you told Darrow?”
“Yep. He's on top of it. Been watching them himself.” He cleared his throat. “Some woman came and found me years ago. Did you know that, boy? Reckons they wouldn't have known anything about you being missing and where to find you if it wasn't for me. She said I was right about them black vans too.” He beamed, nodding, rasping his hands together to encourage warmth.
“Yeah.
I heard you ringing the police had helped them a great deal.”
God bless the old bugger.
“Yep. And I'll keep coming here, keep walking the streets like I always did. Got to do my bit to protect the kids.”
“Aren't you scared, Pete? Seven years has made a big difference out there. The streets aren't like they were when we used to live on them.”
“Nah. I ain't fucking scared. You?”
John thought about where his life was headed, to a new country where no one would find them. Frost and the men who'd been at the house that night were serving hard time, and those who hadn't been found were fuck knew where. Although John and Alex had new names, being in London, shit, even England, made him and his brother uneasy. Austria sounded good when they'd stabbed a pin in the map and the point had landed there. Life would be good from tomorrow onward, getting better every day they were gone from this stinking, evil place.
He smiled, feeling lighter of heart than he ever had. “No, Pete, no. I'm not scared.”
The End
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* * *
About The Author
Sarah writes in many genres. Her love of fantasy and historicals often features in her work, and she leans toward the highly erotic. She lives in England with her adorable husband and children.
www.sarahmastersauthor.wordpress.com
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* * *
Other LYD Titles
By
Sarah Masters
Individual Titles:
Wildfire
Blinded
Glimmer
Secret Society
Grave Findings
Beautiful Sunset
Burning
Vampiric Desire
Series:
The Marked One ~
1: Devil's Spawn
2: Le Frai de Demon
3: The Devil's Return
4: Devil's Torment
5: Devil's Revelation
The Master ~
1: In His Arms
2: Secrets Revealed
3: Promises Kept
4: Another Realm
5: Fate Unwinds
The Unusual ~
1: The First Kill
2: The Reporter
3: The Talisman
4: The Obsession
5: The Capture
The Master Series ~ In Print
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loveyoudivine Alterotica is dedicated to bringing you the finest erotic literature on the web.
You are cordially invited to join us on a journey of sexual awakening and sensual passion.
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