24

Brannon had been drinking for a while. Skye was still in the sitting room. He couldn’t look at his daughter because that just wasn’t possible. Not yet. He needed to keep drinking for a bit longer.

That moment when Lizzie had driven off and he’d been left standing with the knife in his hand: he couldn’t stand it. He could actually hear the people laughing at him. Then it was as if he’d been struck on the side of the head by a bar. It had overwhelmed him. He had had to sit down.

He’d got up like someone seeking first aid and gone to the sitting room. He thought Skye, still cuffed to the radiator, had said something to him but he couldn’t be sure. He couldn’t look at her or respond. He’d gone and got the bottle of Jack Daniels and returned to the hall.

He was familiar with the dark crevasse where he had now settled. He’d known a version of it since he was a child, but it had been smaller then, a narrow, cramped space, like being inside a closed cupboard. The first time had been one of his mother’s boyfriends. The memory was so distant that he had no sense of how old he had been. He had been standing, his back against the wall, watching. The man had hit his mother, more than once, and a terrible panic had coursed through him. He hadn’t known what to do. He’d seen a film – Jason and the Argonauts – and he wanted so much to be Talos, the moving bronze statue with the huge legs, towering expressionless above the weak and feeble warriors, no more than fearful ants beneath his pitiless sword. Instead, he was one of the ants. Why was no one in charge? Why was no one helping?

Another memory rolled over him like a bank of cloud. His mother had called him into her bedroom. The curtains were drawn and the room was dark. He couldn’t remember the man’s face at all, almost as if he had actually had no face; just the shape of his body raised over his mother like a beast. Like the Cyclops in Sinbad with his heavy brow and his furry thighs. She’d raised herself up on her elbows and told him to get her some cigarettes. The money was on the bedside table, right by them. When he hesitated she told him to GET A FUCKING MOVE ON.

He’d had to ask an old drunk outside the shop to buy the cigarettes because he was too young. The drunk took the cellophane off the packet and removed two cigarettes. ‘Tax,’ he said, tapping the side of his nose. The box was ruined without its cellophane. He remembered it now, the gold packet of Benson & Hedges resting in his hand.

That must have been shortly before the police came. That day a woman sat next to him on the sofa and read him a book, while the others held conversations just out of earshot. The police moved through the flat with their radios chattering and the family in the book went tumbling down through fields full of flowers looking for a bear.

In the foster home, he’d had Marley to begin with, but then decisions had been made. He’d tried to listen to what they were saying but he couldn’t follow it. All he’d understood was that Marley had gone. He’d wet the bed. The other kids had laughed at him. That was when the darkness had begun to change. It had begun to be capable of movement, had developed range and power. He could feel it building, like those maps of storms, the isotherms moving across, gathering force and intensity. There was something wonderful about it really.

He’d done shit at school, been sent to a unit. But why should he care? He’d made plenty of money without all that crap. Soon he was working for the Youngs. They could rely on him. He wanted them to know that. It wasn’t just a professional thing; it was more than that. And it seemed they did know, because they trusted him, treated him with respect. He was part of the family. Not one of the main guys, sure, but still, they looked after him. He was beginning to be someone. And on the back of that, he’d made his own little family. They respected that too. He could see it in how they talked to him.

He’d loved Georgina the moment he set eyes on her. Besotted he was. She was his ideal woman. What a beautiful home they’d built. His beautiful family! It was other people who had come between them, people who should have helped them. Georgina’s mother, and that bitch Lizzie Griffiths . . . No one ever wanted to help him! No one had ever looked after him. He couldn’t trust anyone. Not a soul. He had to be a man for everyone. No one else made clear rules. No one else kept their promises.

He thought of Skye in the sitting room. At first she’d been crying, but now she was silent. He felt so very, very sorry for her. She was so small and so precious. So innocent. No one could ever protect her from this world. He had thought he could, but he couldn’t. And when they caught him and killed him, she would be sent to just the same sort of home that he had been in. Never! He would never let them do that to her. It would kill him to do what he had to do, but he was strong enough. He would look after Skye. He needed to keep drinking and then he could do it.

He turned the Samsung in his hand. It was like a glimmer of light here in the darkness. In spite of everything, he could still take pride in his skills. Tradecraft: that was what they called it. He knew better than to make phone calls. This high-quality burner was pristine.

There was an app. He clicked on it. He’d just check up and see where the bitch was. Studying the log, he could feel a chink of light opening inside him. He could track her. Even at this distance he had some control over her. She’d stopped at a hotel just outside London for a few hours. He wondered briefly about that. The cheap bitch had probably met some married man for a fuck. Now she was moving up the M6. He felt his power: at some point she would have to come home. Perhaps he could wait after all.

He logged on to the internet browser. His video had been uploaded to YouTube. It had thousands of hits! The comments were coming in.

Truk407: Mark Brannon, U R my hero.

Fedora-Man: Die you murdering piece of shit.

He didn’t give a shit about that loser Fedora-Man, whoever he was. He was bigger than that!

Brannon went into the sitting room. Skye was lying asleep by the radiator. He went into the kitchen and checked the cupboards. Luckily Lizzie had flour and eggs. He whisked up some batter. He knelt by Skye and gently unlocked the cuffs. He picked her up, cradling her in his arms, stroking her hair.

‘Come on, beautiful, wake up. I’m making pancakes.’