The Fear

And there was the book guy, Chris Marker. It struck DogNut that his robes were similar to Kwanele’s, although his weren’t quite as colourful. He had a group of younger kids with him and was making no attempt to join the others in trying to calm Paul down.

Robbie sidled up to DogNut and gave him a quick nudge in the ribs.

‘Enjoying the show?’

DogNut shook his head. ‘I can’t deal with this kind of thing.’

‘You’re like me, Dog.’ Robbie scratched his bent nose. ‘We’re happier out on the streets with a weapon in our hands. We don’t do domestic.’

In the end it was Brooke who sorted it out. She pushed through the ring of kids and walked over to Paul.

‘I’ll cut you,’ Paul cried. ‘Don’t come near me I know what you want I know what all of you want you want to shut me up you’d hurt me if you could you want to get rid of me like you did Olivia I know what you want you come near me and I’ll stab you.’

‘No, you won’t,’ said Brooke.

‘Won’t I?’

‘No.’ As Brooke said this, she slapped Paul hard round the face. He was so shocked and surprised he froze and Brooke quickly took the knife off him. She threw it away and before Paul could do anything else she put her arms round him.

‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘Everything’s going to be all right.’

‘It’s not all right … She’s gone …’

‘We’ve all lost people, Paul. We’re all alone in the end. If you wa

Paul buried his face in Brooke’s neck and gave in to his tears.

DogNut was close enough to hear him whisper five words.

‘I just want my mum.’

‘I know,’ said Brooke, and she stroked his hair. ‘We all do.’

DogNut was impressed. The old Brooke would never have done anything like this. She’d have been at the back with the sniggerers, tossing jibes at him. He looked around for Courtney. She’d want to talk about what had happened. Out of everyone here she was the one who knew Brooke the best.

Only Courtney wasn’t there. DogNut realized he hadn’t seen her since she’d stormed off.

He scratched his fuzzy hair and noisily blew out a long breath.

Better go look for her.

45

‘We shouldn’t of left him, Jester. That wasn’t right.’

‘We had no choice, Alfie. We couldn’t carry him, could we? He was concussed.’

‘But we should’ve stayed with him. Protected him.’

Jester said nothing. He and Alfie were hiding out in a first-floor flat on the Caledonian Road, peering out of a bedroom window from behind closed curtains. After leaving the railway tracks they’d charged around the local streets looking for Tom and Kate, only giving up when another gang of strangers had spotted them. Tired and scared, they’d looked for shelter and broken in here. They’d been lucky. There were a couple of ancient cans of beans in the kitchen and a bottle of Ribena that they’d diluted with water from their packs. As they sat at the window looking down into the road, they were eating the cold beans and sipping the sweet red drink.

The gang of strangers was still out there, hanging about on the opposite side of the road, trying to get at a scrawny cat that was cowering in a dead tree.

Until the strangers gave up and left, the two boys were stuck here.

‘We should’ve stayed with him, Jester,’ Alfie repeated, keeping his voice low.

‘Really?’ Jester hissed. ‘Did you see how many of them there were? Huh?’

‘Yeah, of course I did.’

‘Well, how long do you think us two would have lasted against them? Seriously? I mean, if Tom and Kate hadn’t legged it, maybe we’d have stood a chance. Maybe. They were a couple of whingers, but at least they knew how to fight. But two of us? Unarmed? Plus you’re not exactly the biggest kid on the block, are you? And I’m not exactly used to fighting.’

‘He was your friend, Jester. You just left him to die.’

‘He’ll be all right. The Shadowman can look after himself.’

‘How?’ Alfie looked amazed, tore his eyes away from the scene opposite and glared at Jester. ‘You said yourself he was concussed. He couldn’t even stand up.’

‘Just leave it, Alfie. It’s done. All right?’

‘Jester –’

‘Leave it!’ Jester spat beans into Alfie’s face. Alfie turned away. Tried not to think about what might have happened to Shadowman.

46

Shadowman wasn’t dead. Not yet. Though there had been times in the last two hours when he’d wished he was. Finding the stranger’s hand gripping his boot had shocked him into life and he’d wriggled away from him. He’d rolled down a bank and then tried to stand. As soon as he was upright again, though, he’d felt dizzy and only managed to stagger a few paces before collapsing and slipping back into unconsciousness. It was the touch of the stranger’s hand that had awakened him. Alarm bells had rung inside his brain and his eyes had snapped open to find the stranger’s face centimetres away from his own. He had been badly beaten in the fight, must have taken at least two hits to the face. Framed by long fair hair, it was an ugly mess, bloated and purple, the skin pulled so tight by swelling that his cheeks looked like two ripe plums with blossoms of green fungus across them. His eyes were tiny, lost in the swelling, and his nose had been reduced to black, piggy nostrils.

The stranger was no more able to walk than Shadowman. A blow or a stab in the back seemed to have broken his spine so that he trailed his useless legs behind him. He could still use his hands, though, his arms, his teeth …

Shadowman had kicked him away and carried on crawling. In all this time he’d covered no more than three or four hundred metres, dragging himself through a long-abandoned building site that had been part of the new development around the station. He had no weapons. He’d lost his club and his knife, so had nothing to fight the father off with except his fists and feet. He knew he had to build up his strength and coordination before he could risk fighting him, though. For now all he was able to do was try to get away. He would start out on his belly, then get up on to his hands and knees. From his knees he’d risk a low crouch, his head pulsing in time with his heartbeat, and when the dizziness didn’t immediately return he’d force himself fully upright …

And every time his brain would short-circuit and he’d tumble down.

And the father would catch up.

It was a pattern that had repeated itself all afternoon, like a nightmare version of the hare and the tortoise. Shadowman was faster, he got away, he passed out and the slow and steady stranger caught up with him and tried to sink his teeth into him. His mouth was a mess, the gums bleeding and swollen, the lips cracked, but he had a full set of teeth, looking incongruously white and clean in contrast to his purple skin. Shadowman had to keep those teeth away from his skin. He knew that even a small cut could get infected.

He’d lost track of how many times it had happened now. How many times he’d woken to find the father clawing at his trousers. No matter how far ahead of him he got he always caught up. The father wasn’t about to give up. His legs didn’t work, he was bleeding from a wound in his side, but the only thing that would stop him would be death. He might starve to death, he might bleed to death, or Shadowman might kill him. The question was – which one of them was going to die first?

The only thing that gave Shadowman any hope was the fact that each time he woke he felt a tiny bit stronger, a tiny bit more clear-headed. He was fighting off the concussion, though his head still ached terribly. And now he’d finally woken to find no sign of the dogged stranger.

He sat up and took his water bottle off his belt, managed to force down some water and hold it down. He smiled. Closed his eyes. Felt a delicious drowsiness flood through him …