‘Maybe it’s you who’s gonna die,’ Bentley shouted as the door clanged shut.
Mathew ran a hand through his tangled mop of hair. His mother said it had a mind of its own, which was daft, because everyone knew hair didn’t have a brain. His brother, Gareth, sometimes called him “hair-brained”, but Mathew knew that meant something different altogether. The English language was strange. So many words, so many different meanings.
A slight breeze whispered promises of relief from the heat. Mathew found it difficult to sleep at night, even with the ceiling fan whirring above him. His mother kept telling him to open the window, but he would never do that. There were moths, spiders, and other creepy things hanging around outside at night just waiting for an opportunity to come inside.
He was proud of himself for not responding to Bentley’s stupid comments. Gareth had told Mathew that Bentley had spent time in prison once and considered himself a big man. The only thing big about him as far as Mathew was concerned was his mouth. Bentley had even told Mr Abbasi to go back to Pakistan once, which was not only rude, but stupid, because Mr Abbasi was from India.
Mathew sat on the bench. He stretched out his legs, sending a group of ants scuttling for cover. The blood-red sun hung above Feelham like a huge all-seeing eye. He stood the umbrella on the ground, clamped it between his legs, and pulled the newspaper out of his pocket to fish out the Skittles. He only liked the yellow, orange, and purple ones. It had nothing to do with flavours and everything to do with colours. Red always seemed to make him feel anxious, and green reminded him of peas, and he hated peas more than Brussel sprouts. But not quite as much as broad beans. God must have been having an off day when he’d created those disgusting things.
He cursed under his breath as Jim Bentley headed towards him. Shoving the Skittles back in his pocket, he opened the paper and pretended to read.
Bentley stopped near the bench and lit a cigarette. ‘What you doing with a newspaper? I thought Mummy only bought you picture books.’
Mathew told himself Bentley would go away if he ignored him. He was only trying to wind him up. Push his buttons. He wasn’t worth wasting his breath on.
‘So, you gonna tell me who’s gonna die?’
The sun beat down on the top of Mathew’s head as if trying to melt his thoughts. He wanted to go home and take off the coat. Relieve himself of the stab vest he always wore beneath his tee-shirt. The newspaper text was nothing more than an indistinguishable blur. Several of the letters appeared to march across the page like ants.
‘Why are you dressed for the fucking Artic?’
Go away. Go away. Go away.
Bentley sat next to him. ‘You know what I think, retard?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘I think you’re a fucking accident waiting to happen. If I had my way, you’d be locked up in Fairacres where they can shoot a few thousand volts up your arse. You never know, they might even find your brain while they’re about it.’
Sticks and stones may break my bones, but —
‘Wassamatta, you lost the ability to speak?’
Mathew shook his head.
‘So, who you gonna kill?’
‘No one. I just say stuff sometimes.’
‘You’re like a fucking doughnut with no jam.’
‘I don’t like jam.’
Bentley pointed at him. ‘You trying to be funny?’
‘No.’
‘You wanna slap?’
‘No.’
‘You know what they say about retards?’
‘I’m not a retard.’
‘They’re the result of in-breeding. Maybe your mummy got it on with one of your uncles. One fuck, and BAM!’ Bentley thumped the bench. ‘One fuck-up of epic proportions.’
Mathew counted from one to ten and back again. The voice in his head told him to knock Bentley to the ground and squish him. But he’d only get into trouble with the police and upset his mum, which was the last thing he wanted to do.
‘Tell me how come your brother’s normal and you’re as mad as a shithouse rat?’
Ignore him.
‘I mean, I know he’s your brother and all that, but something ain’t right.’
‘Leave me alone.’
‘Maybe your old lady dropped you on your head when you was a baby.’
‘Go away.’
The young girl who’d been in the shop walked towards them, a four-pint carton of milk in one hand and a mobile phone in the other.
‘You gonna make me a cup of tea, love?’ Bentley asked.
The girl glanced at him and hurried past without speaking.
‘Kids,’ Bentley said. ‘No manners these days.’
‘Maybe she doesn’t talk to strangers.’
Bentley stood. ‘And maybe she took one look at your ugly mug and pissed her pants. Anyway, I gotta go. Things to do and people to see.’
Mathew had to restrain himself from punching the air in delight. He watched Bentley follow the girl along St John’s Road until a sharp bend obscured them from view. Hopefully, Bentley would walk in front of a bus and get squished.
Towards the end of St John’s Road, there was a gate leading to the Bunky line – a disused railway line running from Feelham to Chorley. About a mile along the track, there was a derelict farmhouse where a guy called Calum Sheppard had imprisoned a schoolgirl some ten years ago. He’d starved her to death because she’d refused to marry him.
Mathew shuddered, remembering the gory details of the murder. ‘Bad things happen to good people in Feelham,’ he whispered.
And he couldn’t help wondering if something terrible was going to happen to the young girl.
Chapter Two
Alison Willis glanced at the kitchen clock and her stomach flipped over. Nearly 7 p.m. Her daughter, Jodie, had gone to Abbasi’s to get milk almost an hour ago. It was only a ten-minute walk. Maybe she’d met one of her friends on the way and was chatting. Jodie could talk for England on a quiet day.
Jodie was a good kid. Feisty. Or spirited, depending on which side of the Jodie-fence you sat. But she had a heart of gold. Loved animals and wanted to be a vet when she grew up. That was a long way off, and she would probably change her mind a dozen times before she reached eighteen. At least being a vet was a more realistic prospect than being a princess (aged seven), a ballerina (aged eight) and a pop star (aged ten).
Jodie’s father had walked out on them two years after her birth. A painter and decorator by trade, and the world’s biggest arsehole by nature, Colin Pitman had proved to be about as reliable as a knackered car in a scrapyard. He’d moved in with some tart he’d been working for on the Pinehurst Estate.
The next few years had been the hardest of her life, but at least she’d been able to find part-time work as a playground monitor when Jodie had started school. With her mother pitching in to babysit, life had been just about bearable by the time she’d met her current partner, Terry Stevens, on a rare night out. Terry was funny, good-natured, and a breath of fresh air after Colin.
7 p.m. Alison grabbed her phone off the kitchen table and called her daughter’s mobile. Straight to answerphone. Her heart stalled as she hit redial and got the same automated message requesting her to speak after the tone. She tossed the phone on the table as if it was personally responsible for her daughter’s absence.