The Evil And The Pure Read Free

story. The worst thing he could imagine was the stranger refusing to read to him. H e had no idea that this was a monster far worse than any he might have dreamt of hiding under his bed or in his wardrobe.
    Big Sandy gulped and said, “Sure, I’ll read you a story. Go to your room. Pick a book. I’ll be right in.”
    The boy didn’t smile. He simply went back to his bedroom. Big Sandy wanted to flee but then the boy would come out again, see his dead father and scream. Big Sandy checked his watch. He still had time. Time enough for a short story anyway.
    Big Sandy stepped into the boy’s room and found him in bed, holding out a picture book, Where The Wild Things Are . Big Sandy wasn’t familiar with it. He’d once had a girl of his own, but she had been taken from him before he’d had a chance to read many books to her. Besides, this didn’t look like a book that a sweet little girl would enjoy.
    The boy pointed to a large grey monster with horns and claws on the cover. “That looks like you,” he giggled.
    “Yeah,” Big Sandy grunted. Then he sat on the edge of the bed, took the book from the boy and started to read.
    The boy stared at Big Sandy as he read slowly and carefully in a deep, low voice. His eyelids dropped almost immediately, but kept flickering open until the story was about two-thirds finished. Then they closed and stay closed.
    Big Sandy read another couple of pages, just to be safe. When he was sure that the boy was asleep, he lay the book on the bed, stood and gazed down at the slumbering child. He thought about taking one of the pillows and smothering the boy, but his hands shook at the mere thought. Big Sandy had done a lot of bad things in his life, and he’d probably do a lot more before he died. But he didn’t want to truly become a horned, clawed monster. Even a man of darkness had to draw the line somewhere. Besides, how much could a five year old describe to the police? A big man came and read him a story. He wouldn’t be able to tell them much more than that.
    The Bush wouldn’t like it but he’d understand. If the boy turned out to be some kind of genius who could sketch Big Sandy’s face, there would be consequences and Big Sandy would bear them. But if the boy was just an ordinary kid, the killer should be in the clear.
    Big Sandy eased his way down the stairs to the back door. He stopped with his hand on the lock, took a hat from a hook – Tommy Utah had a penchant for hats – tried it on, checked in a mirror, smiled at the ridiculous sight of the hat looking like a thimble on his immense head. He replaced the hat, opened the door, stepped out, pulled it shut, rolled off his gloves and pocketed them, walked away. He thought of the boy and shivered, then went to report to the Bush.
     
    The party was being held in a gentleman’s club recently opened to members of the fairer sex, a five minute walk from Covent Garden station. Big Sandy wasn’t dressed for the occasion, but two of the Bush’s men were on the doors. They waved him in despite the disapproving glares of the staff. One of the watchmen was Eyes Burton — steeliest eyes Big Sandy had ever seen. Eyes wasn’t a large man, but he could wear most people down with his stare alone.
    “Any problems?” Eyes a sked, handing Big Sandy a tie and helping him into an oversized jacket that the Bush had had the foresight to supply.
    “Clean,” Big Sandy said. He would tell the Bush about the boy, leave it to him to tell the others if he saw fit.
    “Wife? Kid?”
    “Clean,” Big Sandy said again, pushing past, tugging at the arms of the jacket, slipping on the tie. The tie and jacket didn’t match the jumper and piss-stained trousers. Big Sandy didn’t care.
    The party was confined to two rooms. The other rooms were filled with middle-aged men, grey hair, hand-tailored suits, the scent of expensive aftershave. Those who caught sight of Big Sandy – and he was a hard man to miss – frowned reprovingly but said