‘But they’ll have Ryan with them.’
‘Don’t worry, he’ll be fine.’
Billy heard his own voice. ‘Maybe you should go easy on the violence and concentrate on getting the boy back.’
Dean rolled his eyes. ‘Are you still fucking here?’ He turned to his thugs. ‘Throw him the fuck out, and make sure he gets the message not to come back.’
Billy backed away and raised his hands as the two guys grabbed him and hustled him towards the doorway.
‘Leave him,’ Adele said, without much conviction. ‘He’s only trying to help.’
Dean grabbed her arm. ‘Want to go with your fucking boyfriend, or want to come with us to make sure your son stays alive?’
The taller of the two goons threw a light punch into Billy’s kidneys, enough to make him cry out and make his legs buckle. They carried him between them, his shoes scuffing the floor as they dragged him out of the front door and threw him down the steps. He landed in a cloud of gravel dust, slamming his back off the ground, knocking the air out of his lungs.
The two men sauntered down the steps and began kicking at him, mainly around the fleshy parts, his arse and legs, his stomach. He curled up into himself and covered his head with his arms, wondering if his skull might burst with the strain.
Before he knew it they were done. Only a dozen or so blows. Just a warning. He ached all over, struggled to get air into his lungs. He felt familiar waves of pain course through his body.
‘You heard the boss,’ said the shorter guy as he straightened his jacket and spat on the ground. ‘If we see you again, you’re a dead man, you hear?’
Billy managed to nod as he attempted to get up. He wondered where Jeanie was, if she was still in the house.
He turned and looked about. The two guys had already gone back inside and closed the door. The night was sickly and warm, the air a thick blanket over everything. He strained his ears. Eventually he heard a familiar snuffling and turned to see Jeanie cowering by the front gate.
‘It’s OK.’ He got on to his knees, wheezing.
Jeanie stepped forwards, a tentative shuffle, tail flickering. She approached and nuzzled him, and he held on to her body, gripping the fur and the skin underneath too tightly.
He turned and looked at the house. All quiet, like a normal suburban home. No sign of danger. He let go of Jeanie and slowly pushed his knuckles into the gravel, trying to lever himself upright.
32
He drove without thinking. His hands shook on the steering wheel. He couldn’t find the gear, the retching of the engine making his teeth clench.
Jeanie hunkered in the footwell of the passenger seat, looking up at him. He patted her briefly then returned his hand to the gearstick.
The streets were empty. In a couple of weeks this place would be rammed with tourists and performers for the festival. Now it was desolate, hardly another car on the road. It was about this time of night that they’d driven home up Queen’s Drive.
The car seemed to drive itself. Right at the lights, down the slope past Pollock Halls, left at the roundabout, left again.
He was on Queen’s Drive, heading the opposite direction from that night. Thick moonlight smothered everything. The Crags on his right glistened, the gorse bleached in the light, throbbing with life.
He slowed and pulled over opposite the trees. No cars in either direction. He kept the engine running, yanked the handbrake on. Stared out at the tarmac. No sign of blood anywhere. He wondered if it had been washed away. But there had been no rain, only incessant sunshine for days. Maybe forensics cleared it away.
He opened the car door, motioned for Jeanie to stay put, and got out. Closed the door. Stood holding the handle, staring at the view. From here you could see the Standard offices, Dynamic Earth, the top of the parliament building. Right in the thick of things, yet the middle of nowhere.
He let go of the Micra door and walked slowly across the road. Stopped before he reached the pavement. Just stood there on the road.
As he crouched down he felt his body and brain complain at the motion, every sinew and synapse on fire. He rubbed a hand across the rough surface. Small pebbles moved underneath his fingers.
He fell on to his knees and put both hands on the tarmac. Rubbed them backwards and forwards, then began scratching with his nails at the surface, tearing at the ground until his nails were ragged and his fingertips bloody and raw. He slumped forward, so that he was on all fours, and choked on a sob as it came out, followed by more, caught breath and tears.
Dizziness overwhelmed him, then he was suddenly sick, vomit splattering on the ground between his hands, tears still coming, his ribs heaving with the force. An animal noise rose from his gut, a primitive wail of pain caught between sobs as he stayed there, struggling to breathe.
He imagined a car sweeping round the bend and smashing into him, tearing flesh from bone, smashing his skull and brains and spraying them across the road. Leaving nothing behind, just an almighty mess.
There was a scratching sound. Jeanie’s claws on the inside of the car window. He looked up and outward. No cars coming, no signs of life. He spat on to the road surface and wiped his mouth and eyes. Tasted the salt of tears and something else. Blood. A thin trail of snot and blood was running from his nose. He wiped it away with his sleeve.
He struggled to his feet like a wounded dog and staggered back to the car. There was a jolt down his arm as he pulled at the door handle. Jeanie darted across to her seat as he slid in next to her. He yanked the door closed and stared out the window at nothing.
The engine was still running. He imagined exhaust fumes filling the car. He stared at the crack on the windscreen. He would fix it. He would fix everything.
The car stuttered into life as he put it in gear and pulled away.
*
He parked outside the flat and switched the engine off. Jeanie recognised where they were and began fussing to get out. He reached over and opened the passenger door and she tumbled out in a mess of legs and fur, springing across the pavement to the tiny garden.
He sat in the car and wiped blood from his nose. It hadn’t stopped. Still just a trickle, though. He went into his pocket and pulled out the picture of him, Charlie and Mum, rubbed a thumb over his mum’s face, then his own. Then Charlie’s. The memories wearing away. He raked through the pills in his pocket. Took two uppers and two painkillers.
He pushed open his door then jumped as a passing taxi fired its horn, swerving to miss the outswinging door. An angry voice shouted at him, then the taxi pulled away.
His pulse hammered against his skull as he eased himself out the car and locked it.
Jeanie was sniffling along the wall as he opened the front door of the flat and went inside.
The sound of a television.
In the living room, Charlie and Zoe were both asleep. Charlie was sitting up, empty beer bottle in his hand. Zoe was lying across him, head in his lap, thin blanket over her. Charlie’s other hand was resting on Zoe’s hair. They were both peaceful.
He lifted the remote and switched the television off.
Charlie stirred. He dropped the bottle with a quiet clunk on the carpet, then jumped at the noise. His eyes sprung open and he saw Billy standing over him.
‘Billy, fuck. Where were you?’
Billy tried to remember. ‘I had a story to cover.’
Charlie snatched his hand away from Zoe’s hair as if he’d had an electric shock then began shaking her,
