‘What if there’s an auld mannie living next door?’
‘Rocky or Caramel Wafer?’
‘Got any HobNobs?’
Harry handed over the biscuit tin. ‘Even if he gets all horny, he can’t
Knox was standing in the doorway, wiping his sleeve across his eyes. ‘Me mam was born in that house.’
‘Mandy’s got chocolate bikkies…?’
The weedy little man took a deep shuddering breath, then helped himself to an orange Penguin. ‘Kind of a relief, like. In a way…’ He peeled back the wrapper. ‘Was tying us to the past, wasn’t it? All them ghosts holding us back…Yeah. Maybe it’s for the best.’
‘That’s the spirit.’ Harry spooned bitter-smelling brown granules into three mugs, then sloshed boiling water over the top. ‘Onwards and upwards, eh?’
‘You know,’ Knox opened the fridge and peered inside, ‘’stead of takeaway tomorrow I could whip us up a prawn curry if someone nips down the shops? Feels like I haven’t had a home-cooked meal in months.’
Mandy nudged the fridge door shut again. ‘Maybe later. Need to get stuff organized.’
Knox stared at the vinyl floor for a moment, his cheeks flushing a deep rose pink. Shrug. ‘If you like.’
Harry put a hand on his shoulder. ‘We’re getting another visit from Babs and Paul tomorrow, I’ll ask them to swing by Asda on the way: get the prawns and stuff. I like a nice curry, don’t you, Mandy?’ He stared at her, making his eyes go wide. Like she was supposed to feel guilty about denying Knox his little
Sometimes Harry could be a bit of a tit.
He nodded, like they’d all agreed it was a
Knox smiled. It made his face even pointier, like a shaved rat. Then he scribbled down a long list of ingredients and handed it over. ‘Might as well do it properly like. Not the same if it all comes out of a jar.’
‘Sounds good — back in a tick.’
Knox waited till the kitchen door clunked shut. ‘You don’t like us, do you?’
Mandy shrugged. ‘Why do you think that?’
‘The way you look at us. Like I’m still inside: a rule forty-three. Dirty fucker, who likes to rape old men.’
‘I just want everyone to be safe.’
‘That’s not me any more. God reached out to us in prison. I was standing there, watching this bloke Rupert bleed to death on the landing, and I was thinking, maybe he’s got the right idea, you know? They gave him eight years, cos his home computer was full of photos: little boys getting shagged off the internet. Took a safety razor, snapped it open, and hacked through his veins from elbow to wrist. Couldn’t take the shame and the guilt any more…’
Knox’s eyes were focussed somewhere between the vinyl floor and his knees. Biting his bottom lip.
‘Maybe your mate had the right idea.’
‘And that’s when I heard His voice. “Richard,” He says, “Richard you’re one of Me creatures, and I love all Me creatures. Doesn’t matter what you’ve done in the past, like, you’ve got a bit of Us in you. Put you on this earth to do Me work, didn’t I? Can’t go throwing it all away like this idiot.”’
‘Thought God spoke all “thee” and “thou”, like in the bible.’
Knox looked up, staring straight at her with those rodenty little eyes. ‘It’s all God’s work, isn’t it? Everything we do serves His purpose.’
‘Even raping old men?’
‘War, Famine, Pestilence, Death. He made all them things. Ethnic cleansing, suicide bombers, drought, global warming, AIDS, swine flu, tidal waves, earthquakes…If you took everyone who died in the last hundred years, and stacked all the bodies up, it’d reach from here to the moon, four and a half times.’ A small smile. ‘Not given to us to understand His plans, is it?’
Mandy didn’t know who was creepier, Richard Knox or his god.
Julie sits on the end of the hotel bed, feet tucked up under her, watching the telly. It’s Sky’s twenty-four-hour news thing, some plastic-haired bloke being all serious about the situation in Afghanistan.
Tony takes another swig from his mug, the sharp edge of cheap brandy, turning into instant warmth and sweetness. Think Julie would notice if he helped himself to another wrapper of fizzy coke? Probably. Then there’ll be some serious fucking fireworks.
Have to make do with supermarket brandy.
Neil clumps in through the front door, cradling a couple of big brown paper bags from KFC round the corner. The smell of deep-fried chicken wafts out into the cramped room. ‘Bloody freezing…’ He dumps the bags on the bed and wriggles out of his coat.
Julie looks up. ‘Sweetheart, you’re getting snow all over the carpet.’
‘Like Santa’s bloody grotto out there.’
She stretches out a foot and wriggles a pink-and-green-polka-dot sock. ‘Not wearing any shoes, Darling.’
Neil freezes. Scoops up his coat and hurries into the bathroom. Comes back with a bunch of towels and dumps them on the wet carpet. ‘Sorry.’
Tony holds his breath, waiting for it to kick off, but Julie just shrugs and goes back to the telly.
Neil opens one of the bags and peers inside. ‘Who wanted corn on the cob?’
Julie holds up her hand and Neil passes her dinner over.
‘Thanks, Babe.’
Tony gets a Boneless Banquet For One, with a side of beans. Or the ‘Fat Bastard Special’ as Neil calls it. Cheeky bugger — he can talk, like.
Neil pulls out a little wax-paper bag full of thin rustling chips and crams a handful into his gob. ‘Mmmnngfff, mmmnnfffif, fffm mmmnnnt?’
‘Yeah, Knox phoned about half an hour ago. Her nibs took the call.’
Julie holds up a hand. ‘Shhhh!’
That report about Knox’s house burning down is on again. Kicks off with someone silhouetted against the flames, chucking a petrol bomb. Placards. Angry faces. Fire engines. Then some local plod bigwig giving a statement about how Grampian Police don’t like vigilantes.
Tony sucks the grease off his fingers and takes a swig of the Diet Coke that came with his meal, then tops it up with a good glug of that cheap brandy.
Neil holds out his Sprite. ‘Go on then, give us a splash, like.’
‘You’re designated driver.’
‘Aw, come on, that’s not-’
‘Sweethearts, I’m not going to ask you again.’
Silence.
They sit and eat, Tony flicking through Julie’s file on Danby with greasy fingers. Looking for an edge. Thinking about the little plastic baggie of wrappers in her handbag.
The piece on Knox goes back to the studio: a photo of him up in the background while some tree-hugging corduroy types get all worked up about why he was there, why he couldn’t be left alone, why it was costing so much…Blah. Blah. Blah.
And then the weather.
Neil blows his nose on a napkin, getting the Colonel’s face all covered in bogies. ‘What now?’
Julie clicks the TV doofer, and the screen fades to black. ‘Finish up, then we’re heading out.’ She stands, making for the bathroom, picking her way around the soggy towels on the carpet. ‘I’m driving.’
Tony tries not to shudder, then tops up his Coke again. What the hell — he pours a generous measure of cheap brandy into Neil’s Sprite as well. Solidarity.
If Julie’s driving they’ll both need it.
