January Read Free Page A

his idiot mate, Clarkey. Kitkat wasn’t stupid. If he was going
to keep the money –
if
– he was going to do something sensible with it.
    He peered into the carrier bag at the rolled-up bundles of notes and then reached underneath his bed, hauling out his old school rucksack and emptying the cash into it. As he stifled a yawn,
Kitkat stuffed the pack into the space between his bed and the simmering radiator. He sat staring at the crumpled bag, possibilities and consequences filling his mind before a cavalcade of
eye-watering yawns replaced them.
    Whatever he decided to do, it was going to have to wait until morning.
    Kitkat was woken by the throbbing of the stump where his finger used to be. It was always like this when he spent any amount of time in the cold. He always felt ridiculous
wearing gloves with one flapping finger, so he wore none and pretended he didn’t feel the chill. If he’d known how to use a needle and thread, he’d have customised a pair of
woollen gloves but, instead, the biting Manchester winters were left to blitz his missing digit.
    He pushed himself up in bed, hearing a clatter from the kitchen as he rubbed at the space between his little finger and middle one. It took a moment for the cloud of sleep to clear but then he
remembered the money. There was five thousand pounds lying a few centimetres from his head, waiting to be returned.
    Or spent.
    Kitkat yawned, glancing at the bag that was stuffed where he’d left it. He headed into the hallway with a stretch and another yawn, then tried to click his bedroom door closed quietly. The
creak of the floorboards gave him away. The kitchen door was open and his father turned away from the cooker, thrusting a spatula in the air. Given that he would have been in the pub until the
early hours, Kitkat’s dad looked surprisingly alert. He was dressed and shaven, his short greying hair glistening from a recent shower. He offered a chirpy wink.
    ‘Happy New Year! What did you get up to?’
    Kitkat swallowed a yawn and shrugged. ‘Not much.’ He turned in a circle, glancing towards the front door. It was locked, the chain in place, nothing smashed. If whoever the money
belonged to knew he had it, they’d not come knocking.
    ‘I’m doing fried potatoes and tomatoes if you want some?’
    The memory of Chris’s chicken made Kitkat’s stomach turn. The last thing he wanted was food. ‘What time is it?’ he asked.
    ‘Eleven. I figured I’d let you sleep. Do you want something to eat?’
    ‘Not really.’
    Kitkat mumbled something apologetic and headed for the bathroom. It smelled of shower gel and the walls were speckled with condensation. He sat on the toilet with his eyes closed, listening to
the sound of the cooker. The flat’s walls were so thin that they offered next to no privacy from room to room. That was another reason to use the money wisely and get his own place. If he did
ever get a girlfriend, he could hardly bring her back here.
    After flushing, Kitkat hurried across the hall to his bedroom, scooping up his phone from the floor where it had been charging. He had three text messages, all predictably from Chris and along
the same lines.
    ‘Lunch at HH?’
    ‘Meet @ 1?’
    ‘HH yeh?’
    The Hare and Hound was the pub closest to where they lived. It was an utter hole and had been shut down twice in the previous eighteen months because of drug-dealing landlords. Somehow it kept
reopening in a slightly lower state of repair than when it had closed. There was barely an evening that passed without someone trying to kick off, yet the prices kept the locals returning.
Unsurprisingly, it was Chris’s boozer of choice. He was drawn to trouble like a Member of Parliament to an expenses form.
    As Kitkat stared at his phone, wondering how to reply, it buzzed again.
    ‘Shall I invite Clarkey?’
    Kitkat thumbed the screen, angrily tapping out the message. ‘NO CLARKEY – CU at 1
.
’
    If Chris was a liability, then his mate,