Lets Drink To The Dead Read Free

Fitton. Then, a moment later: “What about the money?”
    “Cash on delivery, Mr Fitton. Cash on delivery.” Click, tap, click , fading as the Shrike walks away. “Eight o’clock, Mr Fitton. Sharp.”
    The door clicks shut. Alan sees his white breath fade to nothing in the air. Still cold, but not as cold.
    “So what now?” Yolly asks. Meaning him, Alan knows.
     
     
    T HE COAL CELLAR was the worst. Not because of having to root through the black, gritty coal, or even because of the dark. The dark was the least of Vera’s worries. The worry was being seen, because you couldn’t get out into the backyard without going through the kitchen, and if she was seen – well, why didn’t you see your stepdad’s body, girl, and why didn’t you call 999? But she had to get all the stuff together. And now she has.
    She strips off again, stuffing the old clothes into a carrier bag and shoving them into the bottom drawer. Then into the bathroom. Coal dust on her face and hands. She washes, thorough but fast, scrubs under her nails to get the dirt out. God, she wants a bath or a shower but she daren’t. Her brother – they could be bringing her brother back at any moment. Christ, he should be back by now; where is he? She needs to call the ambulance now , but she can’t without him there. Where is he?
     
     
    M R F ITTON’S VAN grumbles through Kempforth, heading home. Alan’s home. Mr Fitton grumbling to himself in the driver’s seat, a low constant burble. Yolly’s sat beside him.
    Yolly. Alan knows he owes his life to Yolly. Mr Fitton wanted to kill him then and there once the Shrike had gone, butcher him like a pig. It was Yolly who wheedled and cajoled him. “You heard what he said, Mr Fitton. Let Mr Walsh get rid of him if he wants him got rid of. If you do it, it’s murder and you’ll go to prison for it if they catch you.”
    Mr Fitton’s little black pig eyes had darted to and fro in the dark of the cellar. Johnny, Mark and Sam had all knelt there, silent and ignored. They weren’t relevant now; their fate had been decided. Cattle at the market, picked for the slaughterhouse. Their trapped, weeping eyes had darted to meet Alan’s, envying him his luck. Begging him to help them. But they were the Shrike’s now. They were good as dead.
    “Alright,” said Mr Fitton. “We’ll tek him back. Let Walsh make his mind up what to do with him. Let’s not soil our hands.”
    As if they weren’t killers already, selling kids to the Shrike.
    “But first,” Mr Fitton stepped forward, unbuckling his belt, “we’re going to have some fun. Go get the van.”
    And he pushed Alan face-down on the floor.
    Yolly gentled Alan afterwards, stroking his hair, cuddling him. Kissing his cheeks. Didn’t try anything on. He didn’t look at the other kids, though. The ones he could do nothing for. He’d whispered kind words to Alan until Mr Fitton banged on the door and shouted him to come on, time’s up.
    And now they were in the van, him and Yolly and Mr Fitton, and Johnny Mark and Sam are back in the cellar under the old abandoned mill, waiting alone. Just left there alone in the dark. What if someone finds them? Ah, but they won’t; they never do. Daddy Adrian has the Policeman on his side. They’ve never seen his face; only Daddy Adrian knows who he is. He always wears a mask when he comes for the children. But they know he’s a copper, and he protects Daddy Adrian and the rest.
    “Here we are,” says Mr Fitton, and turns down Shackleton Street.
     
     
    V ERA’S PSYCHED HERSELF up to make herself cry and has finally dialled 999 when she sees the headlights flare in the near-dark at the top of Shackleton Street. She peeps through a gap in the curtains and sees they’re big and widely-spaced, sees it’s the butcher’s van. Fitton’s. Fuck, not now .
    “Which service?”
    Get it done, lass. “Ambulance.”
    She’s sobbing and she’s shaking as the van slows to a halt a few yards from their door, idling,