January Read Free Page B

Clarkey, was a bigger one. Together, they were a walking disaster zone. The last thing Kitkat wanted was the pair of them plotting how best to spend five
thousand pounds.
    Kitkat put on his jeans and hoody from the previous evening, peered at the money that was bundled in the bottom of his backpack, and then looped the straps over his shoulders. He peeped around
the kitchen door to where his father was sitting at the dining table, leafing through the racing pages of a red-top as he picked at the mound of potato, sausage and tomato on his plate.
    ‘You off out?’ Kitkat’s father asked.
    ‘For a bit.’
    His dad nodded towards the stove. ‘There are a couple of sausages going if you want any.’
    Kitkat shook his head. ‘Maybe later.’
    The slop of the mud ate into what was left of the grass on the courtyard outside Kitkat’s flat. The sagging Christmas tree in the centre was leaning even further to the
side, hours away from toppling over entirely. Aside from a distant hum of traffic, everything was silent as a fluttering supermarket carrier bag drifted on the breeze, before entangling itself with
the tree’s branches like the cheapest of decorations. Everyone had got so lashed the previous evening that no one was likely to emerge before lunch.
    Kitkat bustled along the row of flats, heading to the parking spaces, where his car remained untouched. The front was rimmed by crusty brown rust that was slowly beginning to overtake green as
the vehicle’s main colour. It was a good job he knew the bloke who did the MOT, else there was no way it would have passed. Kitkat peered through the windows, wondering if anyone had left him
a message asking for the money back, but there was nothing other than the smears of grease across the passenger seat and dashboard.
    Chris Sodding Bastarding Arseholing Green.
    With an hour and a half to kill before he went to the Hare and Hound, Kitkat had only one destination in mind. He thrust his hands into his pockets and set off, pacing sharply along the frosty,
crumbling pavements in the vague direction of Manchester city centre. The wind was bitter, slicing through the material of his clothes and boring into his stump. He wrapped his remaining fingers
around the gap, squeezing tightly and trying to pretend it wasn’t hurting.
    Soon, Kitkat crossed the Bridgewater Canal and then the River Irwell, barely seeing a soul until he reached the outskirts of the retail park. The red, white and blue lights still blazed from the
Tennessee Fried Chicken restaurant as they had probably done all night. He pressed the button at the pedestrian crossing, but headed across without waiting for the green man to flash. There was no
traffic anyway.
    He wasn’t sure what he expected – there was hardly going to be a ‘Where’s our money?’ sign in the front window – but it was as if nothing had happened. Kitkat
watched through the large panes at the front as the uniformed staff bustled behind the counter. There were three vehicles in the car park and a dozen or so people inside, but no sign of the server
from the previous night – though it would have been quite the shift length if he was still on. No police, no signs, nothing. All was normal. Happy New Year: here’s five grand.
    Kitkat pulled the straps on his rucksack tighter, hoisting the bag higher on his shoulders. He could feel the money at the bottom. Was it really his? Could things be that easy?
    He edged along the front of the restaurant, sitting on a fixed bench at the end and removing his phone from his pocket. His fingers were shivering but he unlocked the screen to see that nobody
had bothered to message him other than Chris earlier. He peered back through the window of the restaurant but nobody was paying him any attention.
    It was a new year but he was stuck with the same life – and was utterly invisible to all around him.
    With little else to do, Kitkat stood and headed back towards the main road. He’d get to the Hare