Page 25 of Final Betrayal

Closing the door, she rushed back to the sofa and grabbed her phone. Still no reply from Leo. She’d try his number once more, and then she was doing as Boyd had instructed her. Hopefully she’d get some sleep.

Just as she turned out the light and headed for the stairs, she heard Louis screech in wakefulness.

Then again, maybe sleep was a little way off yet.

Freddie Nealon turned round to find his friend Brian McGrath pissing on the overgrown grass. He was so out of it, he couldn’t say anything. They’d spent hours sitting on the canal bank drinking beer and smoking weed, and were both drenched and cold. There were six houses on Petit Lane, five of which were derelict. Freddie staggered up to the middle one and pushed open the door.

‘This doesn’t look like your house, Freddie.’ Brian followed him inside. Maybe he wasn’t as far gone as Freddie had thought. At least he could get the words around his tongue and out of his mouth.

A flicker of light cast a shadow along the torn wallpaper.

Freddie jumped. ‘Fucksakeyou … you … fuckyou …’ He saw Brian looking down at the lighter in his hand, and at the scorched black glove in his other. ‘Shit, fuck, shit.’

Darkness returned.

‘Where the fuck are we?’ Brian pushed back his hood and attempted to flick on the lighter again. No luck. He threw it on the ground. ‘Wait, man. Wait up.’ He put a hand to his ear in dramatic fashion and pulled Freddie backwards. ‘Listen up. Shit, did you hear that?’

‘Wha’?’ Freddie said.

‘A noise. Upstairs.’

‘Can’t hear nothing with you mouthing. Give us a can and a light.’

Brian bent down to find the lighter, but it was too dark to see anything. He rooted around in the plastic bag trying to extract a can to placate his spaced-out friend. He stopped. ‘You hear it that time?’

‘Hear what?’ Freddie said. ‘I just want a light and a piss.’

‘Shh. It’s like footsteps. Come on, Freddie, I’m getting out of here.’

As Freddie turned around, a constellation of stars burst behind his eyes. In the same moment, he saw Brian already in a heap at his feet. That was when he realised that someone had thumped him on the back of his head. As he sank to the floor, a second blow came, and blackness descended.

The light bulb flickered, once, twice, then went out. Megan Price dropped her bag on the hall floor and cursed loudly.

‘For pity’s sake. Not tonight, please.’

She kicked the bag under the hall table and picked up her post. In the living room, she switched on the lamp. At least that worked. She slumped into her armchair, pressed the recliner and lay back, staring around at the empty space. Her arsehole of a husband – no, scratch that, her ex-husband – had taken almost everything. Said he’d paid for it, he was entitled to it. Well, no shit, Sherlock, she’d told him. Wrong move, Megan. He’d filed papers with his solicitor to get her to sell the house. He wanted money. She was fighting him like her life depended on it, mainly because he was just a greedy creep. And now he’d sent her another solicitor’s letter. Crumpling it up, she stuffed it down the side of the chair.

Closing her eyes, she let the events of the day wash over her. Penny Brogan had been fired because she was stealing from the shop. But why was Amy Whyte still friends with her? They were a world apart in class. Not that Megan was a snob. But all the same, it rankled with her. Maybe it was because her ex-husband was a step below her in class. Make that a complete ladder, she thought.

He was going to pay for making her life one big shit bowl. Then she thought of the nice detective she’d spoken with today. He was kind of cute in a sad sort of way. Maybe things wouldn’t be so bad after all.

SIXTEEN

It was still dark outside when Conor Dowling rolled off his bed and got dressed on Tuesday morning. He bundled up yesterday’s work clothes to put in the washing machine, then brushed his teeth and splashed cold water on his face. Running a hand over his shaved pate, he knew there was nothing he could do to remove the extra years ingrained around his eyes.

There was no sound from the living room, which his mother still used as her sleeping space. She was welcome to it, he thought, as he loaded the washing machine and went to scoop some powder out of the box. A few wayward grains settled in the bottom of the scoop.

Oh God! He’d have to buy washing powder. With nothing else for it, he switched on the machine without any detergent.

‘Conor, is that you?’

‘Who else did you think would be in this dump at this hour of the morning?’

‘What did you say?’

Conor shook his head. He was speaking his thoughts out loud all the time now. Was he going demented? Maybe it was in his genes after all.

‘I’m putting on toast. Do you want some?’ he shouted back.

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