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  Now the two men poking their heads over the rose bushes as they looked at the house were going to foul things up.

  If he let them.

  He could see that both of them were in their twenties. Both wore jeans and black sweatshirts. One, although carrying too much fat, looked physically strong: his bull neck was the same width as his shaved head. The man had left the gun in the attic, and without it, these new intruders would be tough nuts to crack.

  The other, thinner, wearing a dark baseball cap, looked the meaner of the two. Even as the two moved up to the kitchen window to look inside, he surmised the man in the cap probably verged on the psychotic with his peculiar fixed and disdainful mouth. The tattoos on his face and hands backed that up. A loner who spent his life either on bail or in prison.

  The man moved silently through the bushes to get a little closer. The two were whispering on how best to break in. They were heading for an argument. Fat Man wanted to forget the house and go for the car in the garage. Cap Boy wanted the house. Cap Boy lifted something in his hand. It was a hammer; the kind used for smashing in doors, or maybe even a pensioner’s face.

  Cap Boy liked to do that kind of thing. He got a kick out of it. Probably even more than from the crack cocaine he’d suck into his lungs.

  The man’s lips and neck tingled. It was coming on without warning. Jesus, Jesus, this’s Christmas come early. The tingling flashed through him. Cap Boy – yes, he could do it to Cap Boy.

  The man looked at the back of Cap Boy’s head. The tufts of hair poking beneath the cap, the tattoos on the neck. Carefully, he focused on the back of Cap Boy’s neck, the bleeding-heart tattoo, a mole the size of a chocolate button that bled every time his neck was shaved by the prison barber.

  Yes, the man knew what Cap Boy was like. What he loved to do when they switched out the cell lights or when he broke into a house. Ha! Ha! Fun to shit on the beds; fun to stick the budgie in the microwave … flutter, squawk, thud.

  Something clicked into the man’s head as his imagination went onto auto.

  Without trying now he stared at the back of Cap Boy’s head and thought:

  I know you: you were always the funny one at school. You did crazy things that made the other kids laugh. You were always in a gang because they got a kick out of you taking all the risks when you kicked in a shop door. You were always the one who got so drunk you’d piss in through the police car window. You were the one that always got arrested But what did you care: you got the laughs and the respect, only—

  —only things changed. Your buddies all got steady girlfriends. But girls think there’s something creepy about you. You thought you’d always be part of the gang, but other gang members started acting straight, getting jobs, buying houses and carpets and talking about wallpapering the baby’s bedroom. Boring twats. Soon you were the only one left to piss into police cars and kick in shop doors. But you’d shit your hole. The courts got nasty and started sending you down for six months at a time.

  But nothing hurts you, right? Not when your mother’s boyfriends beat you. Or hearing that cell door bang shut.

  You live in a bedsit. You’ve got a girl now. OK, she’s only probably with you because you give her crack. And boy, oh boy, do you need a lot of crack; so you rob houses and cars and may be knock over an old lady in the street for her purse. Getting good at it, too. Move on to bigger and better.

  Like this house. Take what you want. So what if Mr And Mrs Family Normal don’t like it, give them a smack with the hammer; then they’ll be sweet and generous. Maybe Mrs Family Normal likes a bit of rough, yeah, then she’ll have a bit of rough, and it’ll be so rough she’ll not sit down for a fortnight.

  But Fat Boy here’s not got the stomach for it. He wants to nick a car stereo that ain’t worth the price of a fix. Just look at him, fat face, fat backside, but he ain’t got no guts.

  So why’s he hanging around with me, then?

  Because he’s giving your girl what you can’t, pin prick. Every time you’re out busting a house to get money to buy her sugar and spice and all stuff nice, Fat Boy here’s walking into your bedroom and walking straight into your bitch.

  She doesn’t give a toss about you, Cap Boy. Fat Man’s all she cares about. You can see them, can’t you? She’s laying naked on your bed, high on your crack and she’s begging Fat Boy to pump her. You can see them, now, can’t you? All bare arses and tits, all flappity-flap. She’s bouncing up and down on him, those long ear rings you bought her jingling away like little tinker bells, and she’s saying, ‘Christ, Fat Man you know what I like … not like that stupid cretin … with his baseball cap … and his poxy tattoos. He can’t get it up: pin prick – that’s what he is. If you ask me he’d be better with a boy.’

  You’re not going to take it, are you? You’re not going to let them bleed you dry? Then laugh at you the moment your back’s turned.

  Teach them a lesson. Next time Fat Boy’s there with his bare backside heaving up and down on top of her take that bloody hammer and hammer him, right on top of that fat head. Then show that bitch that you’re the one with power. Take back what she owes you. Hold her down by her hands; you’ll see her head twisting from side to side, because she knows what you’re going to do next.

  But you’re too strong for her.

  You bend over her; grip those ear rings in your teeth, pull them out one after another, then all the studs that cover her ears and nose; pull them out with your teeth one after another – pop, pop, pop, pop.

  Blood all over the place. Show her you’ve fucked Fat Man lover boy with the hammer; his skull’s split in two like a cabbage. Pow! You can do it.

  Wait …

  You can do it now.

  Look at Fat Boy, peeping through the kitchen window. Nice big head he’s got, ain’t he? Nice big hammer you’ve got. The two sort of go together, don’t they? Yeah, do it now. You’ve got the guts, you’ve got the power; all that sexy power; you’ve got it: Now, do it; do it; do it; do it …

  Yeah, that feels good, doesn’t it. The way the hammer head came down with a nice popping smack. Did you see how he went straight down into the flower bed? Look, his mouth is full of dirt; he’s looking up at you; his mouth’s going like he’s saying his prayers or something but you can’t hear because his mouth’s full of Mr & Mrs Family Ordinary’s garden dirt. Plant a hammer in it, that’s it, wonder if it’ll sprout a hammer tree in the spring; and yeah, yeah, little hammer fruit in the autumn. Teeth all broken up now; but his eyes are staring at you as if you’re a little piece of shit. Pop those, too. Down comes the hammer. Pop! Down comes the hammer again! Pop!

  Fat Man’s got no eyes, do dah, Fat Man’s got no eyes, do dah, do dah, day.

  Fat Man’s not moving now. Not even his lungs or his iddy biddy heart.

  Get rid of the sucker. That’s it, pick him up, you can do it.

  You carry him to the truck. Easy peasy.

  You dump him in the back. You climb into the cab whistling, a job well done. Lights on, engine revving, and away you go, with the lucky dice swinging on the end of the chain from the rearview mirror.

  You’ve driven a good ten miles. This should do it. A nice quiet forest, pull off the road and drive through the trees.

  Right, you stop the truck here. Fat Man’s still sleeping the sleep of the eternal in the back of the truck.

  Still whistling, feeling as big as a tree and as strong as a lion, you take the can of petrol from the back and start sluicing down the cab and Fat Man, laying there in the back of the truck, flat on his back, hands across his fat gut; the red holes where his eyes were watching the stars.

  Now this is real power. You sit on the cab roof of the truck and pour what’s left of the petrol over you. It runs as cool and as refreshing as mountain spring water over your face and down your chest; it soaks your jeans; you laugh happily and pour petrol into your mouth; gargle with it then squirt it out in a thin jet. Now, where did you put those matches …

  He woke. Hell, that was some
shit-weird dream. Killing his best buddy with a hammer? Driving into a forest; dousing the truck with petrol, then sitting on top of the cab roof and dousing himself?

  He opened his eyes expecting to see the pair of striped curtains and Shaz sleeping off a headful of crack.

  It was dark. But not dark enough. His eyes widened. Shock made him breathe in sharply; petrol fumes felt like needles stabbing up into his nostrils. He sat on the cab roof, his legs dangling down into the back of the truck. Bomber lay on his back, his face smashed to a bloody mess. It was night. But why could he see so much? With a feeling of dread, his eyes swept up to see the burning match between his finger and thumb.

  The flame kissed his petrol-wet finger. He screamed. Instantly a sleeve of purple flame rolled up his arm; then down his body like he was one big fuse. The flame hit the pool of petrol in the back of the truck.

  With a roar, a ball of flame as big as a house rolled up through the branches to the tree tops.

  His eyes were wide open. It seemed he’d been locked in the heart of the sun. Everywhere was an eye-blistering light, and heat that felt like a million sharp teeth biting his skin.

  He jumped from the truck roof to run through the trees, a human fireball screaming and lighting up the green ceiling of leaves.

  He ran screaming, knowing he was dying, yet hoping if he ran faster than he’d ever run before he might leave this second skin of fire behind. Through bubbling eyelids he saw tree trunks zip out of the darkness to rush by him, patches of grass, frightened rabbits running frantically out of the way of this earthbound comet that blazed and crackled across the forest floor.

  Then miraculously a lake appeared in front of him.

  A deep cool lake. Hope surged up inside of him. If he could make the lake. Put out the fire. He’d be all right. He’d be all right!

  He pounded across the dirt, leaving shreds of burning sweat-shirt behind him; incredibly the only thing untouched by the fire, his baseball cap, was still pulled tightly on to his head.

  The lake reflected the golden wash of flame. He ran towards it, a blazing comet. Nearly, nearly there …

  The tree root caught his burning trainers. He fell forward, screamed; the next time he breathed in, the fire melted his lungs. Gurgling, he rolled on to his back and lay there. The fatty tissue in his body ignited.

  The lake was as good as a thousand miles away. Skin and blood boiled together. The flames illuminated the branches above. And the ceiling of green leaves seemed to dance lightly with the stars themselves, beyond his burning eyes.

  Chapter 17

  Monday

  By the time the man’s unwitting host came down to make breakfast there was no sign of what had happened the night before. The man had thrown the hammer in the pond and carefully covered Fat Man’s blood in the flower bed with a layer of top soil.

  The early-morning sun was hot enough to shrink the wound on the man’s face. It stung painfully. The activity of the night before made his injured leg ache so that he now limped back to the house.

  Still, he felt good. Things were going his way. The little girl, Amy, appeared a promising subject for his purposes.

  Now he crept nearer to the kitchen window so he could see inside. His unwitting host was cheerfully singing along to a song on the radio. He knew the man’s name was Richard Young and from overhearing conversations he knew a fair smattering of the man’s background too.

  Now it was vital that he gain some kind of control over the man and his family.

  He watched Richard Young pour cornflakes into bowls, fill the kettle and light the gas hob.

  The man stared at the back of Richard Young’s neck.

  I know what you’re like, Richard Young, he thought. You’re a happy family man. Everything would be all right in your world if you weren’t burdened by the useless bit of wasteland at the back of your house. You know the land’s not even worth the price of that box of cornflakes in your hand. But you don’t say anything because you don’t want destroy the dream your father-in-law planted in your wife’s mind.

  Stop.

  Don’t go on with this. It’s not your problem. Just because your father-in-law loused his business up you don’t have to carry the can for it all your life.

  Break free from it.

  Start right know.

  Do something, some big gesture, that shows people you’ve got a mind of your own.

  Do you see that gas flame in front of you? Turn it up. Hear it begin to roar now? See how blue the flame is. See how high it leaps.

  You can use that, you know. You can use it to get rid of this thing you’ve got round your neck.

  Imagine if you put your hand into the flame and held it there.

  You’d feel no pain, I promise you. It would feel as cool as holding your hand under the cold water tap.

  No pain, Richard Young.

  All you would be doing is releasing yourself from that shitty piece of land that threatens to screw up your life.

  Put your hand in the flame and wait.

  Now imagine your fingers are five fat sausages. You put them on your barbecue and you watch them fry. Until the skin splits, until the meat inside oozes out in a thick, sizzling paste …

  Do it, Richard Young. Put your hand in the flame.

  Rosemary Snow opened her eyes.

  They were crusted with matter. Her whole face felt so tight it felt as if she wore a rubber mask that had shrunk hard against her skin.

  She tried opening her mouth. At the third attempt her lips parted with a faint tearing sound.

  Every movement hurt. Her teeth ached. Her head tingled. And it felt as if half her stomach was missing.

  Anyone else would have lain there, feeling three parts dead.

  But Rosemary Snow had a mission. She knew she must find the man who did this to her. It was the only thing that mattered now.

  She would find him. And she would kill him. Everything was subordinate to that – the pain, the stiffness in her arms, the ache in her knees.

  She pulled the IV needle from her arm. Distantly she realized blood trickled down to her fingers. She ignored it.

  She pulled the feeding tube from out of her nose. It felt like she was pulling a snake down her nostril; the pipe seemed to go on for ever. At last it came out with a spurt of milky fluid.

  Rosemary looked round the hospital room. Any second someone might walk in. She couldn’t allow that.

  Her mission was the one thing that kept her alive. Hatred had become her body’s fuel.

  As she dragged herself out of the bed, she saw the mirror above the sink.

  She paused. The idea of looking at her reflection appalled her. But curiosity was stronger. She had to see what had happened to her face in the fall. Pushing one foot in front of the other, she shuffled across the floor.

  For perhaps twenty seconds she stood, her hands resting on each side of the sink to support her shivering body. She stood with her head down, not daring to look into the mirror.

  ‘Do it, Red Zed.’ She gritted her teeth. ‘Do it.’ Taking a deep breath, she gripped the sides of the sink. Then she lifted her head and looked directly into mirror.

  And screamed.

  The gas jet flared bright blue. The heat from it tingled Richard’s face. He looked at his hand. At the fingernails, at the creases in the skin, at the bluey hue his wedding ring had taken from the flame.

  Just for a second the absurd impulse to stick his hand into the flame had flitted across his mind. Grinning, he shook his head and slapped the kettle down onto the hob.

  ‘Morning, sleepy head,’ he said cheerfully as Amy walked into the kitchen, yawning a mighty yawn.

  ‘Boys kept me awake,’ she said. ‘They’re making a boat in the loft.’

  ‘By gum, the bad Boys. We’ll round them up and throw them in the pond. Hey, what do you say? Hey …’

  He tickled her neck and she squidged her shoulders up to her ears, giggling.

  ‘Fun and frivolity so early in the morning?’ Chri
stine came in wearing jeans and a white T-shirt. She kissed Amy, then sat down at the table, smiling broadly. ‘Right, then. I’ll have the fresh orange juice, croissants, followed by bacon, mushrooms and scrambled eggs.’

  Richard laughed. ‘It’s cornflakes. Like ’em or lump ’em.’

  * * *

  Through the window the man could see the family eating breakfast. He’d tried to get into Young’s head. It hadn’t worked, but then, he never expected it would. Last night was an unusual case. The psychopathic kid had been peculiarly receptive.

  The man watched the Youngs closely. They laughed as they talked. Their happiness lit up the house like some kind of interior sunlight.

  Just for a second, the man felt an aching sense of loss. But it vanished as quickly as it had come.

  He’d come too far to be distracted by sentimentality. He had a job to do. And nothing – but NOTHING – would stand in his way.

  The handgun was in the rucksack hidden in the shrubbery. He’d retrieved it from the attic after disposing of Fat Man and Cap Boy. In a minute he’d collect the gun and —

  Jesus!

  It hit him.

  Hard.

  It was coming. He knew it must only be a matter of time, but he thought he’d have had more warning.

  Drawing in a sharp lungful of air, he turned round, his heart pounding. It was out there. Somewhere beyond the land they called Sunnyfields. He sensed its approach.

  A dark pounding force. Colossal. Invisible. Powerful enough to shake the earth.

  He moved back into the bushes, thinking fast. His plans had just gone belly-up. No doubt about that.

  The thing that followed him could be here any minute.

  He needed to do something. He needed to do it fast.

  Then he did the only thing he could think of. Deliberately he forced his thumbnail beneath the scab that ran down the side of his nose.

  It ripped away from his face with the sound of a stick of celery being broken in two. Then he gouged at the wound. Again and again until blood poured freely down his nose, across his lips and chin, soaking the front of his white shirt in a dirty red stain.