D.S. Lasser
The Needle House
The Way That It Falls
Tethered To The Dead
Twisted
More Equal Than Others
Vanished Beneath
Riven
Bad Self
Crave
Moments Back
Conspiracy of Ravens
Dark Necessities
Living Ashes
Stations Of The Cross
The One With All The Pain
Shadows Cast
Blood Bought
Desolate Hearts
Winter's Lament
D.S. Marnie Hammond
Whippersnapper
Rain Of Souls
Day Is Done
Plymouth
Stormcock
The Strife And Grime Of Charlie Roebuck
Pinches Of Salt
The Needle House – DS Lasser 1
Author Robin Roughley
Copyright © 2013 by Robin Roughley
Published on Amazon 2013
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Cover design by Valerie Hammond.
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THE NEEDLE HOUSE
1
In the end he ran, simply because it was the only sane thing left to do.
When Kyle had suggested they pile into his beaten-up Fiat and drive to the woods, Billy had groaned. Half an hour sandwiched on the back seat, littered with old burger wrappers and empty beer cans was a grim prospect, especially on a branding-iron hot day like this.
He thought back to the last time he'd been in the death trap on wheels. Shaun Miller had rummaged down the back of the seat looking for a fiver he swore he lost the week before. Instead of money, he'd found a used condom and had spent the next ten minutes dangling the shrivelled rubber in front of Billy's face, laughing hysterically as he tried to twist away. In the end, Kyle had draped it over the rear-view mirror displaying it proudly like some grotesque air freshener.
Now as the sun dipped towards the horizon, he found himself collecting wood for the fire, foraging beneath the towering beech trees, kicking his way through drifts of burnished leaves, searching for timber that was dry enough to burn.
While he trudged back and forth, his arms laden with fuel for the fire, the others occupied themselves with the serious business of getting off their faces on cheap lager.
Billy dropped the last of the kindling onto the ground, doused the timber with lighter fluid, and tossed the empty can into a patch of nettles. Striking a match, he studied the flame for a moment before flicking it towards the small pyre. Instantly, the vapour ignited, and the searing blast sent him staggering back; the eruption of flame threw tall shadows careering against the trees.
Above the roar, he could hear the others laughing hysterically at his near incineration, eyes streaming, he coughed and spat out the acrid taste of smoke from his lungs. When he was sure the fire had taken hold, Billy flopped down onto the leaf-littered ground, listening as the others talked about the two topics that ruled their lives, fucking and fighting.
Yawning, he rubbed the sting of smoke from his eyes and let his mind wander. He had heard the stories countless times before and with each new telling, the embellishments bloomed as mushrooms fed on bullshit.
As the night wore on and the fire died down to a crackle, he rose to his haunches, alert for a discarded joint or any half-full can of lager tossed carelessly to one side.
Things changed when Tommy dished out the small white pills. This was nothing new; simply another part of the ritual, whether it was smoked, sniffed or swallowed was irrelevant, as long as they got the 'buzz'.
When two of the gang became aggressive, Billy felt a familiar twist of unease.
Starting with the obligatory pushing and shoving, it quickly escalated into outright warfare. The eruption of violence ended when Shaun Miller slipped and clattered to the floor. Tommy burst out laughing and Kyle choked, spraying a mouthful of lager onto the hot coals, the liquid hissing like a stamped-on cat. Despite his unease, Billy nervously joined in with the laughter until Miller whipped his head around, fixing him with a glare that promised violence.
'Come here, you little prick!' he snarled.
Billy licked his lips. 'Sorry, Shaun.'
'You fucking will be.'
In desperation, he threw a glance towards the others to see if anyone was willing to come to his aid. What he saw etched onto their faces elevated his fear to a new level. All three glared at him across the glowing embers, it was as if someone had pulled an imaginary plug from behind their eyes and replaced it with faulty wiring.
Billy Jones couldn't tell the time properly, yet he knew it was time to get out of there. His feet slithered on the grass as he tried to gain traction. Billy made a break for it.
Minutes felt like sweat-drenched hours. Twice he tripped over hidden roots as he dashed between the gnarled trunks of the old trees, slamming hard to the ground as the brambles snagged at his legs, trying to ensnare him until his tormentors arrived. At last, he staggered out into open ground. On the darkened hori
zon, he could see the lights of the town centre shimmering behind a drizzle mist.
Billy peered into the gloom, the derelict farmhouse sat hunched in the middle of the undulating field, a black slab against the shifting shadows.
Swiping a hand over his bristly hair, he flicked the droplets of moisture away and began to run, looking fearfully over his shoulder, watching as the trees diminished until they were no more than a dark smudge on the hillside.
Reaching the door, he rested an arm against the rotten woodwork, trying desperately to drag air into his punished lungs.
The sky above appeared heavy with bloated rain clouds, the edges slashed with slivers of silver. A few seconds later, pale moonlight broke through, bathing the surrounding countryside in a strange half-light. Then he spotted them, a dark mass staggering down the hillside towards the ramshackle house.
Pushing frantically on the door, he forced a gap big enough to squeeze through and backed off into a blackened room that stank of stale cat piss.
Billy scuttled forward until his grasping fingers encountered the nearest wall and then he began to inch his way to the left. Beneath his hands, chunks of rotten plaster crumbled to the floor. His fingers brushed across a patch of something yielding and slippery that clung to the pitted surface and he snatched them away in revulsion.
Eyes screwed shut, he took a shuddering breath and placed his fingertips back against the wall, then shuffled sideways until he came across the wooden panelling of a door. Billy's hands skittered around the surface until he located the handle. Whispering a silent prayer, he pulled the door open and grimaced as a blast of fetid air rushed out to meet him. He paused to listen, ears straining to pick up the slightest noise. He didn't want to go forward into the yawning darkness, though turning back was no longer an option. Swallowing his fear, he slipped into the room, sweeping his arms back and forth like a terrified child playing blind man's bluff at some nightmarish birthday party.
When the drop came his mouth snapped open in terror, a scream locked in his throat. In that split second before he could vent his fear, his right foot came into jarring contact with the floor.
Billy staggered forward, arms windmilling for balance. A part of his mind that seemed miraculously unaffected by the trauma, casually informed him that it was a step, nothing more than a 'stupid fucking step.'
When the arms slid out of the darkness and took hold of him, he didn't know whether to scream or to say, 'Thank you.'
As it turned out, he never got the chance to do either.
2
DS Lasser doubted whether the living room would ever feature in 'Beautiful Homes' magazine. The woodchip paper was peeling and yellowed with nicotine, the pattern on the carpet consisted of old beer and food stains, coated with a generous sprinkling of dog hair.
He looked around for somewhere to sit but the only available chair was littered with gossip magazines and empty pizza boxes.
'So, Sarah, when was the last time you saw Billy?' he asked.
Sarah Jones was in her late thirties, yet she had the harsh stamp of someone ten years older, her dark hair piled on top of her head with the grey roots shining through like the tail of a skunk.
'Yesterday.'
'What time exactly?'
'It is no use asking about the time, I'm dyslexic.'
Lasser sighed. 'Well, can you remember if it was in the morning or…?'
'It can't have been the morning,' she paused. 'I had a lie-in.'
'So, you're saying it was in the afternoon?'
'Come to think of it, it could have been the day before.'
He looked at her in disbelief; this was a complete waste of time. Billy was probably staying with one of his mates, stoned out of his brains on the cheapest drug he could get his grubby little hands on.
'What about his friends, have you tried ringing any of them?'
'Phone's been cut off,' she said, before turning her attention back to the television, where Jeremy Kyle was berating a couple of teenagers about the dire consequences of having unprotected sex.
Lasser watched as the audience bayed and booed. 'Is your Michael at home?' he eventually asked.
She shrugged, her eyes still glued to the screen.
'Right, I'll leave you then.'
Sarah snapped her head around. 'Hang on, what about my son?'
Lasser stared at her, his temper beginning to rise. 'Does he still hang around with Kyle Connelly?'
'Why are you asking me?' she snapped. 'You know what kids are like nowadays, no respect. If I'd treated my mother the way he treats me…'
'I'll tell you what, I'll call round there you never know he might have got carried away doing his homework.' He turned and headed for the door, desperate to be rid of the woman who sat in the chair with her fat legs shrink-wrapped into a pair of Lycra leggings and a T-shirt covered in old food stains.
'Well, when you find him, tell him I know he was the little sod who took the thirty quid from my purse!'
So, that's what it was all about, Billy had stolen cash from his mother and why bother tracking him down yourself when you could get the 'filth' to do it.
He glanced over his shoulder, but she had already turned her attention back to the television. Not trusting himself to speak, he headed along the hallway, stepping over the assorted junk that littered the narrow space.
Standing on the doorstep, he glanced at the lawn and dragged up a smile, chances are the Joneses would be missing the garden of the year competition again. The grass was patchy and brown; ancient dog turds littered the small space like some weird, ornamental, garden feature. In one corner, an old wreck of a car was lodged against the privet hedge, patches of weeds growing out of the space where the engine used to sit.
As he headed down the pavement, a football arched overhead landing on the bonnet of the pool car with a thud, the alarm began its dull bleating. A kid of about ten ran past and grabbed the ball before booting it down the street to his mates, his shoe flying off in the process – following the same trajectory as the ball.
The boy hobbled after his wayward footwear, while his friends laughed and pointed. 'Shut up, you tossers!' he bellowed in response.
An elderly woman pulling a tartan trolley smiled at Lasser as she tottered past.
'Little buggers,' she said fondly.
Silencing the alarm, he climbed into the car. The old girl wouldn't be so blasé when the kids discovered it was easier to mug old age pensioners rather than work for a living. He slid the window down to release some of the blistering heat and started the engine, before heading off to pay Kyle Connelly a surprise visit.
Slowing to a crawl, he eased over speed bumps on Lancaster Road, the edges of the rubber curling like picked scabs. Turning right at the roundabout, Lasser did a quick double take. Maybe there was a god after all, Kyle Connelly was slouched outside the Spar mini market, head tilted as he chugged on a can.
Lasser drove past the parade of boarded-up shops; the only one still doing any business was Frank's chippy. When the council had tried to force him to move, Frank had dug his heels in, determined to make a stand against the 'bastards' at the Town Hall. Lasser remembered a couple of years earlier when Jamie Oliver had been ranting on about how bad school dinners were. Surprisingly, the local school had taken up his cause, led by a progressive hippy of a headmaster. Out went the pizzas and mechanically reclaimed chicken, replaced by healthier options, plenty of veg and pasta, fresh fruit by the bucket load. The local families hadn't been interested until the price of school dinners rocketed, then the mothers on the Lancaster Road estate had blown a fuse. One irate mother interviewed by the local rag had complained that, 'we don't pay our taxes to be dictated to by a fucking cockney barrow boy.'
Frank had never had it so good, disgruntled mothers bought bags of chips by the dozen, passing them through the school railings to their starving kids as if they were inmates at some evil concentration camp. Shortly after, the progressive headmaster had moved on with his ponytail tucked between hi
s legs.
Cutting left, he parked on the small car park at the rear of the buildings, climbed out and headed around the corner while Connelly was still busy draining the can.
'Good afternoon, Kyle.'
Connelly glanced over his shoulder and then spat on the floor, before turning away.
'It's funny seeing you here; I was just on my way to your place.'
'Oh yeah and why's that?' Connelly asked with a sneer.
'I'm looking for Billy Jones.'
'I haven't seen him.'
Lasser pulled out his cigarettes and lit up, a tatty looking Fiesta drove by, the driver gave a blast on the horn, and Kyle raised a hand before popping the middle finger.
'So, you haven't seen him then?'
'Are you deaf, I've already told you?'
'That's true, but you see the thing is, Kyle, you have a nasty habit of telling lies.'
'Why don't you just piss off, eh?'
Lasser watched as an ancient dog attempted to lick dry gravy from a discarded chip tray. 'Got any drugs on you, Kyle?'
'Why, do you want some?' Connelly sneered.
'Thanks for the offer, but I prefer my cocaine when it isn't mixed with Cillit Bang. Now empty your pockets.'
'What for, I haven't done anything?'
'Now, you see most people would look at that response with suspicion. They'd think this boy has something to hide. But I know you're keen to help, so I'll give you a minute to reconsider your answer, you can even phone a friend if you want?'
Connelly pulled back his shoulders and threw out his chest, hands bunched into fists.
Lasser held his poison gaze. 'Right then, I think a trip to the station is in order, don't you?'
Connelly frowned and then his shoulders slumped as he fell back into the default stance of every eighteen-year-old thug in the country.
'OK, I saw him last night, are you satisfied?'
'Far from it, now I want the time and place, Mr Connelly, and no more pork pies.'
'I don't know.'
'Well, was the little finger pointing to…?'
'It was about half-ten.' Connelly spat.
'That's better and where was this?'
A long pause, the sun blasted down as the old dog cocked its leg against the litter bin.
The Needle House Page 1
