by Thomas Emson
Like he told Mr Hanbury, he had never meant to nick the PS3.
But when he’d swaggered past the Sharpleys flat in Bradford House the previous afternoon, he couldn’t resist poking his head through the open door.
Paul was fighting with his dad, reeling around the living room. They swore and shouted. Both sounded drunk.
The PS3 sat by the door. It was still in its box. It had a price tag on it. One of the Sharpleys had probably nicked it from somewhere. A house or maybe even somewhere in town.
With his brain telling him not to do it, Spencer had reached out and grabbed the box.
He thought he’d got away with it. But just before he legged it, he’d looked up and Paul caught his eye. He hadn’t said anything, only carried on laying into his dad.
And when Spencer finally bolted, he was pretty sure he’d got away with it.
But something had slowly uncoiled in his belly during the rest of the day.
It was fear.
And it became fully unfurled when news rifled through the tenements that the Sharpleys were looking for the bastard who nabbed their PS3.
Spencer had been up all night on the games console. If the Sharpleys were coming to get it back, he was going to make the most of it.
Jay-T had also been up all night—smoking dope with his sister.
The mates had met at 8:00 am.
“Come over to the squat; I got a PS3,” Spencer had said.
“Yeah, and the Sharpleys want it back,” Jay-T had said.
“Better hurry up and play it to fuck, then.”
They’d nicked some cereal from Costcutter and ate it from the box, heading back towards Spencer’s squat. Then, as they strolled past Roy Hanbury’s house, a voice had called out, “Spencer Drake, you heathen bastard, get in here, child of God.”
Spencer had frozen. His balls had shriveled. That happened when Roy Hanbury spoke to you. He was a legend. Not the fearsome figure he used to be when Spencer’s dad was a dealer round the estate. But he still had that reputation. You respected Roy Hanbury. He’d earned it. Now in the cellar beneath the garage, Spencer regretted ever setting eyes on the PS3.
“Look at this,” said Jay-T.
“What the fuck is it?” said Spencer.
It was an area of concrete floor that had been bricked off. Ten feet wide and six feet deep, the red of the bricks stood out against the dark stone of the cellar floor.
“Can you smell something?” said Jay-T.
Spencer felt dizzy. There was a drain set in the middle of the brickwork. He stared at the hole, narrowing his eyes.
“It’s coming from the drain,” said Jay-T. “And . . . and can you hear that noise?”
Spencer listened. He sniffed. He heard rushing water and smelled dirty river.
He listened to a cold voice whisper, Blood . . . blood . . . blood . . .
It chilled him. Froze his bones and made his brain hurt.
“What . . . what was that, Jay-T?”
Jay-T crouched at the drain and said, “Sounds like a river down there.”
Pick up a brick . . . crack his skull . . . make him bleed . . .
Spencer trembled. He felt dizzy, a bit sick.
Jay-T was saying something about a smell and a river and maybe something about treasure, but Spencer wasn’t sure. By then he’d bent down to pick up a brick and was lifting it above his head.
Do it, came the voice again, like acid in Spencer’s veins. Like a hammer in his skull. Do it and be my witness—be the instrument of my savagery. Do it . . .
Spencer saw white light.
With all his strength, he brought the brick down on the back of Jay-T’s head.
Chapter 21
REBORN
Spencer panted and stood over Jay-Ts dead body. Blood seeped from the mangled skull and drizzled down the drain.
The ground trembled.
Spencer came to. He gasped and staggered back.
“J . . . Jay, man, get up,” he said.
But Jay-T stayed still.
The only thing moving was the ground.
It shuddered, making it difficult for Spencer to keep his feet.
“Oh fuck, what have I done?” he said, his voice high pitched.
He felt something in his hand and looked—a brick stained with blood and matted with hair.
He yelped and flung it aside.
He checked his hand. Blood. He screamed and wiped it on his tracksuit bottoms.
The ground shook.
Spencer swayed.
The sound of water rushing grew louder—a torrent, now.
And then the cold voice from Spencer’s head said, “Freedom tastes so good . . . ”
But it wasn’t in Spencer’s head, any more. It was right there in the cellar.
A plume of black smoke drifted up from the drain. Spencer’s insides turned watery. His legs buckled, and he fell to his knees.
The smoke swirled and became a shadow, which grew solid and took the form of a man.
Spencer was frozen with fear.
The figure loomed. It wore black—hat, cape, trousers, boots. But the clothes were damp and covered in dirt and blood. The stranger carried a tattered brown leather briefcase. He grinned, showing rotting teeth. His eyes shone like black pearls. They fixed Spencer like a hawk’s would fix on a mouse.
“You’re mine, little man,” said the figure. “Slave or eunuch, you can choose.”
Spencer said nothing. His voice had abandoned him. His sanity seemed to have made a run for it, too.
I am mad, he was thinking, I am mad.
The figure cocked its head and kept looking at Spencer.
I am mad . . .
The pale, white face shimmered in the gloom.
I am mad . . .
Chapter 22
YOU HAVE AN EDGE
Faultess had been leaving for the last hour. But cold coffee kept him seated. Cold coffee and warm eyes. The way she looked at him made him think of her sister.
“Does Jasmine know about Rachel?” he asked.
“She knows she died—that she was murdered. You can’t protect kids these days. Rumors spread like the plague here. They rifle through the streets, and you can’t stop them. Might as well tell the truth at the out. It saves a lot of hassle.”
“How did she deal with it?”
“She’s okay. But it’s so far away for her. Before she was born.” She looked into her tea and rubbed her eyes. “Jesus, who would do such a thing to her? To all of them.” She stared up into Faultless’s eyes. “To your mum.”
“How’s your dad taken it?”
“You know what it was like at the beginning. He was going to smash down every door on Barrowmore, find the bastard, and hang him on the common. But just a year later he was under arrest, and after that he went inside. Twelve years. I honestly thought he’d tear that prison down to get out. He was going to find this guy and kill him—kill him slowly and painfully.”
“What happened?”
“Dad found God.”
Faultless remembered that Tash had described her father as godly earlier.
“Fire and damnation,” she said. “The real deal. So when he comes out of jail a couple of years ago on license, he’s got no intention of finding out who killed Rachel. He’d forgiven him, he said. And Rachel, she was—she was with Jesus.”
“Is he still God squad?”
“Dad’s practically the pope of Barrowmore. People are still scared of him, but he just doesn’t do what he used to do.”
They were quiet for a few seconds.
“Are you still on the warpath?” said Tash.
He thought carefully before saying, “I want to find who killed them.”
“You’re not a detective.”
“I’d do a better job
than the bunch of layabouts who ran the investigation. I could’ve killed that Don Wilks. I had a few run-ins with him.”
“He was out to get you.”
“Everyone was out to get me.”
“Oh, poor Charlie Faultless.” She smiled and everything lit up. He smiled back, unused to the sensation.
She said, “You think the killers still around?”
“Maybe he died. Maybe he went away. Maybe”—he furrowed his brow and looked her in the eye—”he went to jail.”
Her face hardened. “You came here with a suspect in mind, Charlie? Is that it? My dad wouldn’t do that. To his own daughter?”
“He was a suspect.”
She leapt to her feet. “So were you. I can’t believe this. And we were getting on so sweetly, weren’t we. Just like you to bring an edge to things. Rachel always said that about you.”
Faultless bristled.
Tash went on. “She said you were cold, that you were sometimes like the blade of a knife.” She turned her back and folded her arms. “Christ. You come here, drink my coffee. Then blame my—”
“I’m not blaming anyone.”
“Especially not yourself.”
“I better go,” he said, rising.
“You better had.”
He touched her shoulder. She didn’t flinch. He kissed her cheek. She smelled of roses. Her skin was silk. He stayed near her face for a second too long. Wisps of her golden hair brushed his mouth. She gasped.
He said, “Seeing you was great, Tash.”
“Go find out what seeing my father’s like.”
“Maybe not so nice.”
Chapter 23
RIP THE FIFTH
The dark man hovered. His cape flapped. Writhing figures and agonized faces appeared in the folds of the cloak. It might have been his eyes playing tricks on him, but it looked real to Spencer, and his bowels trembled.
He gazed up, terrified.
The man came down, and his feet settled on the ground.
“You fear me,” he said.
The voice went through Spencer like wire.
He was going to piss himself.
“Do you know who I am?” said the stranger.
“Jesus, no . . . I never saw a thing, mate.”
The dark man laughed. “You never saw a thing?”
“Nothing. Honest. I’m not a grass.”
“You’ve no steel in you. You’re a coward, I think.”
“I won’t tell. Please let me go.”
The stranger clicked his tongue. “I don’t care who you tell. Tell the world. My name will be known, soon. My legend will again ripple through the streets. How are the streets, by the way? Still bloody? Still grim and desolate? I miss the grim and the desolate.”
Spencer screwed up his face in horror.
The stranger cocked his head and studied him. “You’re not the one, are you?”
Spencer gasped, shaking his head. The one? Whatever it was, he didn’t want to be it. His balls had shriveled to marbles. He was cold and scared and wanted to be safe in his bed.
“The one who’s been doing my work for me,” said the stranger. “The one who came to me years ago. The one who has been preparing the way for this homecoming. You’re not the one, are you?” He scratched his chin, pondering Spencer.
“I’ll . . . I’d do anything,” said the youth.
“You’re squeaking.”
“Anything, mate.”
“I’m not your mate, chap.”
“Are . . . are you the devil or something?”
“Or something, I think’s better.”
Spencer was looking for a way out, his eyes flitting around the gloomy cellar, when he clocked Jay-T. “He’s . . . he’s dead, ain’t he.”
“You killed him for me. His blood freed me. The sacrifice. You know, like goats are sacrificed. Like sheep. Sometimes humans have to be sacrificed. Now what to do with you.”
Killed him? thought Spencer. Killed Jay-T?
The stranger said, “Do you want to die, or do you want me to torment you for the rest of your life?”
“None of them . . . please . . . I can help you. Who are you?”
“Would you kill for me?”
“Kill?”
“One must be ripped.”
“Ripped?”
“One more, and I’ll be free.”
“F-free?”
“Stop repeating what I just said, or I’ll cut your tongue out and eat it.”
Spencer clamped his mouth shut.
The dark man said, “I am a bringer of death. A spreader of dread. A spiller of blood.”
“O . . . o . . . okay . . . ”
“Are you with me?”
Spencer nodded.
The stranger said, “Slave or eunuch, then?”
“S-s-slave?”
“Good. I need to be free of this place. Somewhere, there are things waiting for me—things I need to devour. And a man, too. He’s waiting for me. A killer. The one who has prepared the way. A killer of four. We must bring him to me. And then we find the fifth. Bring ripper and victim together. Rip the fifth. Rip the fifth, and I’m free of these streets. Are you still with me?”
Spencer nodded again. He was scared. The weird man was obviously nuts.
“Have you heard of someone called Troy?” said the stranger.
Spencer shook his head.
“Do you know what seers are?”
Spencer shook his head once more.
“You don’t know much. Seers have very bright souls. They shine brighter than anyone else. Because they shine so brightly, they can shed light on secret things. Things other people can’t see. Things like evil. Things like me. You understand?”
Spencer shrugged.
“You don’t even know who I am,” said the dark man.
“O . . . okay . . . who . . . who are you?”
“I’m Jack. And I’m back.”
The door at the top of the stairs flew open. Spencer wheeled. The Sharpley brothers and Lethal Ellis raced down, shouting, swearing, and threatening to shank him.
Spencer turned, but the stranger had disappeared.
His briefcase remained. It was open. Something glinted inside. Something steel and sharp.
Chapter 24
TEA AND BISCUITS
Roy Hanbury sneered and looked him up and down before holding Faultless’s gaze.
“What do you call that thing with the eyes again, Charlie? The one brown, one blue?”
“Heterochromia iridum.”
“Sin.”
“Sin?”
“Adam sinned, sin is passed down through the genes, and we are all sinners. It causes disease, corruption, earthquakes, it makes land barren.”
“And it makes one eye blue, the other one brown?”
“That’s right—sin. You know sin, Charlie.”
They looked at each other for a few seconds. Hard seconds. The moment filled with rage.
Hanbury cooled things by saying, “You made it big, then. Done well for yourself.”
“I done all right.”
“When I urged you to leave—”
“Told me to fuck off, or you’d kill me yourself—”
“When I fucking asked you to leave—I thought you were fucked. Dead fucked. Or banged up, for sure.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“Where did it all go right, Charlie?”
Faultless looked up at the portrait of the crucified Christ over Hanbury’s mantelpiece and thought, He got a shit deal from his dad.
He looked at Hanbury again. “When you exiled me, Roy, I didn’t know where to go. I was a kid, eighteen. I’d hardly been out of East London. Barrowmore was my patch. I thought I’d stay away for a few w
eeks and then come back.”
“That wasn’t going to happen.” Hanbury lit a menthol cigarette.
The minty smell made Faultless screw up his nose. He sniffed and then said, “You made that pretty clear. If I came back, they’d kill me.”
“If you’d come back, I’d kill you, Charlie.”
“I thought about doing myself in. I had no clue about anything except running these streets.”
“You were a first-rate thug, I’ll give you that.”
“I wasn’t that mean.”
“You were as mean as a fucking honey badger. You seen those things? They fight lions and leopards. Take on anything. They rip your balls off. Fucking vicious. That’s you, Faultless—a fucking honey badger.”
“Ain’t they fluffy?”
“One of the nastiest of God’s creatures.”
They were quiet for a while.
Faultless had arrived twenty minutes ago, hoping to surprise Hanbury. No such luck. When Charlie was invited in, a coffee pot sat on the low table. Two cups, china, flower patterned, waited to be filled. Hanbury had even made sandwiches and cut the crusts off. And digestives were piled on another plate.
Tea and biscuits with the beast of Barrowmore.
“Haven’t spoken to your daughter in the past few minutes, have you, Roy?” Faultless had asked.
“I still don’t grass, son,” Hanbury answered, inviting Charlie to sit down.
Faultless stared at Hanbury. A big bear of a man with a snake draped over his shoulder. His arms were muscled and tattooed. His head was shaven. A scar, white on his bronze skin, raced across his throat.
Hanbury had been twenty-one. Thug brothers named Bobby and Benny Malone kidnapped him. They were old school. They owned Barrowmore. They ran the drugs and the pimps, and they decided who lived and who died. Hanbury barged into their territory. He was a bulldog. He didn’t go around—he went through. Right through the Malone’s defenses. They got the rage. They killed his mates. They told him, You’re in the deep end—get out.
But Hanbury kept coming. That bulldog in him.
Finally, they got him—five brutes breaking down his door and dragging him out at three in the morning.
They trussed him with wire and tossed him in the back of a van.
