Twisted Vigilantes

By Gary Kittle

(BOOK 1) BULLY FOR YOU: When Chris Haynes is beaten up one evening, a nightmare begins.
Struggling to cope as a single parent, Chris is attacked again – only this time the mugger uses his name and hints that he knows a secret about his volatile son, Bradley. Why does Bradley hate his father so much? And what does Chris have to feel so guilty about?
The mugger’s game intensifies, and Chris tries desperately to reach out to his son, suspecting that he alone holds the key to solving the mystery. But Bradley has a psychological game of his own to play, driven by resentment, rage and terror. He intends to put what he knows about Dad to his own ends, to punish his father for what he sees as the betrayal of his absent mother.
In this tense urban crime thriller, Chris is driven towards a mental breakdown, a victim of vigilante justice where the nature of his crime is never stated. What does the mugger really want? What role does Bradley's new school friend, Gordon have in this unending nightmare? Does he know the mugger too? And what is hidden under the floor of the Haynes’ summer house?
As the intimidation and violence escalates, someone is heading for a bloody fall, and someone stands to lose everything – even their life.
(BOOK 2) GLASS ALIBI: Geoffrey Madeley has an obsession. His beautiful young wife, Claire has a secret hidden on her mobile phone, and the more she tries to hide it, the more he thinks he knows what it is. With his worst fears tormenting him, Geoff decides he won’t lose the love of his life without a fight.
But all is not as it appears.
His mother-in-law, Sheila also has a dark secret, a secret she is suddenly keen to share. Does she suspect her daughter of telling lies, too? And if so, can he use what she knows to his advantage?
Geoff can’t afford to delay. But without conclusive evidence, will his gambit prove decisive or disastrous?
With the consequences of his actions circling in on him fast, Geoff must find a way to cover his tracks, save his marriage and keep the police at arm’s length.
At any cost.
Because if he doesn’t, the truth will turn Claire’s love into a hatred that will outlive them both.
(BOOK 3) THE HOUSE RULES: An unexpected visit from a stranger brings dark news for widowed Christine. Her home health monitor, the House, has concerns over her safety. Her House can prove that she forgets things. Her House insists she is at risk. And the House is never wrong.
Christine must be assessed, and, if necessary, treated against her will in hospital.
Determined developer Tom O’Sullivan, sensing an opportunity to finally grab Christine’s house from under her feet, also begins to turn the screw. But this is her home, not just some vacant plot to build on. She won’t budge, not at any price. O’Sullivan, however, is not the type to take no for an answer. But though his harassment threatens violence, she can prove nothing to those in authority. Her sleep is broken, her appetite stolen, and inexplicable things are happening within what feels increasingly like a prison. Could the House be right?
With the stakes rising by the hour, Christine must fight to save her home and her sanity. But what chance does she stand with her every action scrutinised by the walls surrounding her and the tenacious O’Sullivan circling outside like a vulture?
In her desperate struggle for independence, Christine must learn to live by one simple maxim. And if she forgets it, even for a minute, it could seal her doom. For in the world of health algorithms, the House rules.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gary Kittle
• Release date: Jul 13, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005830786

Gary Kittle

Gary Kittle is the author of thirteen eBooks. He was twice shortlisted for the Essex Book Festival Short Story Competition and his play 'Walking Through Wire' was staged (and filmed) in London in 2014. Many of his shorter screenplays have been filmed by Film Colchester and DT Film Productions. 'Data Protection', written by Gary for Dan Allen Films, was shortlisted for the Sci-fi London 48 Hour Film Competition. He has won the 1000 Word Challenge with 'The Uncertainty Principle', and twice been shortlisted, finishing runner-up with 'Kismet'. He was also runner-up in the Storgy Halloween Short Story Competition with 'The Gag Reflex'. He is also the author of a serial horror novel, 'A Town Called Benny', with episodes published fortnightly. Outside of self-publishing, Gary is also heavily involved with DT Film Productions. Their first full feature film, Dragged Up Dirty, on which Gary is an executive producer is due for release in 2023. The full-length documentary, Hearts Without Homes, on which Gary contributed as a writer, is also out this year. 'Crowded House' follows on from the success of 'The Hanging Rail'. Gary lives and writes in Wivenhoe, Essex, and strongly suspects that given his frantic writing schedule, he has developed the ability to travel through time. Visit him now at https://gkittle.wixsite.com/gary-kittle-author Where darkness rises.

Book preview

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter One

The house was full of shadows, but only one of them was his.

Chris switched on all the lights, but the brightness only made his headache worse. He closed his eyes and swallowed but someone had lodged a golf ball in his throat. He tried to shift it with gulps of sweet tea. Sicky tomorrow, he thought, as if this dark cloud had a silver lining. Or maybe it would be better to get an early night and from tomorrow pretend it had never happened. After all he’d just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. He poked out his tongue and winced: the stiff upper lip was his already. Fatigue set him swaying, and in the living room glare he could smell again the mugger’s breath tickling his cheek, the fingernails skewering his flesh…

Chapter Two

‘In… my jacket….’ Chris wheezed. ‘Wallet… mobile…’

From behind his ear came a spray of laughter. A meaty arm curled around his throat and yanked his head upward as a knee pressed down into his lower back, stimulating the need to inhale whilst making it physically impossible.

‘What… do you… want?’

‘Your dinner money, of course.’ The contemptuous laughter came again. ‘So be a good boy and hand it over.’

In an agony of stretching Chris slipped his hand into his trouser pocket and clawed its contents out onto the pavement. It wasn’t just the wallet and smart phone that were ignored; there was also a decent watch. Not a desperate drug addict, then. And certainly not a professional thief, not if he was only going to get away with £2.34 each time.

‘Take… it! Take it!’ And with a final yank of the forearm his assailant did just that…

Chapter Three

The sound of movement from above snapped Chris back into the present. Would Bradley even notice his cuts and bruises? Footsteps moved over his head and a door slammed. Here we go again, Chris thought. Just what I don’t need. The footsteps clumped down the stairs and Chris stared at the living room door. The handle bowed and the door crept open. It stopped, and for a brief moment Chris caught a phantom whiff of that fetid mugger’s breath. Then the door swept inward and there was Bradley. Does he even look like me? Chris wondered. It was hard to tell with that curtain of hair flopping about. Didn’t the school have any standards?

‘What happened?’ The tone of voice was flat, the facial expression neutral.

‘Tripped up,’ Chris replied. ‘Down some stairs.’

Bradley grunted and headed for the television, sweeping up the remote as he fell into the seat.

‘I’m all right, though,’ Chris added to the back of the boy’s head. No response. ‘You hungry?’ Again nothing. ‘Brad?’ He caught what might have been either a grunt or a belch. ‘I thought maybe Chinese?’ The volume from the television climbed. ‘Chinese it is then,’ Chris muttered, turning away to the kitchen.

Nearly a fortnight and she had hadn’t called him or even emailed. Tess was being deliberately cruel, and Chris was damned if he’d read those letters. They weren’t addressed to him anyway. It was a question of respect. He was still the man of the house, the head of the family. ‘You’re suffocating me,’ she’d complained. But the truth was their marriage had been a slow-motion car crash for the past three years, with both of them grappling for the steering wheel.

Snatching up the Chinese takeaway menu, he searched for something reasonably healthy. Telephone order completed Chris walked over to the kitchen window to close the blind. The moon cast its milky glow onto the lawn. Before he knew it the clocks would spring forward and he’d have to start mowing every fortnight. Not that Tess had ever done much in the garden except put the washing out. The garden fence was a wall of darkness; the summerhouse a solid featureless block staring back at him.

Movement caught his eye. Frowning, Chris leaned forward, his nose close to the cold glass. Outside all was still. A cat, perhaps? Or one of those urban foxes monopolising the news? He stared into the darkness, but the throbbing behind his eyes intensified and with a curse he tugged down on the blind cord. ‘Jumpy sod.’ He put out the crockery and cutlery; then on second thoughts a couple of trays so that they could eat in front of the television together. Even if there was no conversation they could still share the same air, surely?

Their Chinese meal arrived courtesy of a young boy who insisted on telling Chris he was Vietnamese. ‘That’s all right. I’m not planning on eating you.’ When he retold the gag his son accused him of being racist and headed for the stairs. If only Tess could see what she had done, walking out on an adolescent boy and his dutiful father. There had to be ‘someone else’.

Feeling gloomy Chris watched the television alone, drifting in and out of a doze; but when Crimewatch came on it seemed a good time to call it a night.

Chapter Four

Bradley Haynes hoped that flight of stairs was long and hard, the steps jagged. Over breakfast the next morning he’d noticed more bruising on his father’s face, and he seemed restricted in his movements. Good job. Since she’d been gone the house was drowned in silence. Mothers didn’t abandon their children, as Dad had claimed, no matter what they were going through.

In the first few days of that unexpected quiet he thought about contacting the police, but realising his father would just turn on the charm - Brad hasn’t taken this very well. He’s in denial, officer - he remained tight-lipped. He didn’t want to be the next member of the family to ‘disappear’. Dad kept trying to reassure Bradley that Mum would call him up any day now, but every day that she didn’t his misgivings about the summerhouse grew stronger.

When he wasn’t in school, Bradley took to his room, trying to figure out how he could get back at his father. Sometimes he felt as if the crown of his skull could blow clean off with all the rage bubbling away underneath. Several teachers had criticized his schoolwork, and though he was trying to keep up appearances, he knew a ‘welfare meeting’ with Dad was inevitable. ‘It’s his mum, you see. She’s…gone.’ And she wasn’t coming back, Bradley knew. Thank God, then, for Gordon.

‘Hey, Gordon. Wait up,’ he called across the park.

Gordon froze like a cat catching the scent of a very large dog. He was hanging about in the doorway of the lavatory block, as if he couldn’t quite make up his mind whether to pee. ‘Little freak,’ Bradley muttered. He started to slink inside, pretending he hadn’t heard his name, as Bradley strode across the grass towards him. Bradley decided to play Mr. Nice. Today it would be a bear hug; tomorrow, a rugby tackle.

‘Hey.’ Gordon didn’t turn around. If there was a hole nearby would he have stuck his head into it? Brad wondered. Pathetic. ‘I thought it was you. Didn’t you hear me?’

Gordon spun round, wearing the least convincing smile Bradley had ever seen. It looked like someone had put fishing hooks into the corners of his mouth and pulled them back hard. Now there was an idea…

‘All right, Brad?’ Gordon bleated. ‘I was just on my way home.’

‘But don’t you live on the other side of town?’

Gordon’s smile faltered. ‘You know where I live?’

‘Sure. East Street. Number fifty-three.’ Gordon’s despair was obvious as he tried to think how this could have happened. Bradley leaned forward and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper: ‘I followed you from school last Thursday.’

Gordon’s shoulders slumped for a second, before he rallied himself. ‘Wow, I never even suspected. You should become a spy.’

Or an interrogator. Boy, this was fun. ‘So what are you doing here?’

‘Um,’ Gordon paused before answering, as if to gauge the least harmful answer. ‘Just - you know - hanging out.’

‘I thought you said you were going home?’

Gordon suddenly looked weary, like someone swimming towards a distant shore who realised he was never going to make it. Bradley stifled a pang of sympathy and reminded himself that Gordon was someone whose idea of a good time was to stick his face in a book till he ran out of pages.

‘I was hanging out… on my way home,’ Gordon stuttered.

What, in the lavs? Priceless! ‘So let’s hang out together. I’m not in any hurry to get home, are you?’ No word of a lie there. ‘Unless you still need the…’ Bradley nodded towards the Gents.

Gordon blushed. He actually blushed! Bradley laughed to himself as he draped an arm around the other boy’s shoulder and led him off in the direction of the park gates. Buy that man a tank top! ‘It will give us time to get to know each other better. You know, become proper mates.’

‘Really?’ Gordon asked.

‘Sure. And I never realised you collected coins.’ He’d brought them in to show the class the week before. T.W.A.T. ‘You got any brothers or sisters, Gordon?’

‘Sort of.’

Sort of? What are they, rented? Virtual? ‘How do you mean, Gordon?’ Bradley let his arm fall away. Didn’t this guy ever wash?

‘Well, my dad’s remarried so I’ve got two step-sisters now. But they don’t like me.’

You don’t say? ‘So, we’re both only children, then? See, something in common already?’ Bradley laughed. ‘Apart from collecting coins, of course!’

‘You mean you collect them, too?’

Bradley laughed harder still. ‘You bet. I’ll show you some time.’

Gordon’s eyes shone with excitement, and that pang of sympathy hit Bradley again, threatening to spoil his entertainment. He forced himself to take a long critical look at the other boy. Everything about Gordon Moore was obnoxious: his threadbare second-hand clothes, the way his nose seemed always to be dripping, his nervous ticks and awkward movements. Awkward? Watching him on the sports field was like watching someone with two left feet. Had he actually been born at all? Bradley wondered. Or was he some kind of six form biology experiment gone wrong? Do you know, Moore, I actually think I hate you? The sympathy vanished.

‘So where shall we ‘hang out’, then?’ Bradley grinned.

‘Well…’ Gordon looked uncomfortable again, as if he suddenly did need the toilet after all. ‘I… I guess I could show you my secret place.’

Oh, Jesus, a den! Only six-year olds have dens, you cretin. ‘Great! Sharing a secret would really make us mates.’ Which potentially was not so great. ‘Lead on, my friend.’ Bradley didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Talking to Gordon was like being trapped in an R.E. lesson forever.

For a second Bradley was convinced the stupid freak was going to start skipping. They called in at a newsagent for sweets, and then Gordon led him away from the town centre towards the industrial estate. Sometimes Bradley came up here to skateboard with his real friends, so he was relieved to see there were no other kids about to witness him in the company of creepy Gordon. They walked over to the wire fence holding back the wilderness beyond.

‘Here,’ Gordon said, scanning in both directions to make sure no one was watching.

Bradley noticed a tear in the wire close to one of the metal support poles. As he watched Gordon grabbed the lower corner and peeled the wire up, producing a corner just wide enough for them to squeeze through. Once on the other side they had to skirt the length of the fence for a short distance before turning into the wood proper. This was obviously ancient woodland, like they’d learned about in Geography. After a few minutes they came to a clearing, at the far side of which was a small concrete hut.

‘Now do you know where we are?’ Gordon chirped, full of himself.

Of course, the railway embankment, the grey rails describing the cut below. And this building was an abandoned signalman’s hut or something. Gordon scuttled over to the entrance which was covered by two rusty corrugated metal sheets. He moved one of these aside and motioned for Bradley to enter.

‘Hey, this is… nice,’ Bradley smirked, poking his head inside. ‘How did you find it?’

‘I just got lucky, I guess.’

‘Does anyone else know about this place?’

‘Oh, no. Just you and me, Brad.’

The interior was a bare concrete shell in the centre of which was an old faded rug, a Seventies coffee table and a camping chair. ‘Home sweet home,’ Bradley muttered. Hanging from a nail was a faded picture of two adults smiling.

‘Joseph and Mary?’

‘They’re my parents - my real parents, I mean. Before Mum… you know…’

Bradley’s attention was immediately captured by the father. There was something about the way his arm fell across the woman’s shoulder – as if he were not just holding her but holding her still - that unnerved him.

‘You won’t tell anyone?’ Gordon whispered.

Bradley turned to look into those frightened, dull-witted eyes and felt a welcome surge of disdain. ‘No. Course not, Gordon. Like you said, this is our little secret.’

‘Perhaps we should give it a name?’ chirped Gordon.

Bradley surveyed the interior again, noticing how the rubbish and dirt had all been pushed up into one corner. ‘Sure. And maybe put some more pictures up.’

‘You think so?’ Gordon gushed.

Bradley took a step towards him, anger suddenly coursing through his veins. ‘Of course not, you moron. I’m taking the piss!’

Gordon’s jaw dropped a good two inches, his shoulders by nearly as much. He tried to smile but it looked more like another nervous tick. His eyes flitted towards the gap between the tin sheets that served as a door, then back to Bradley.

‘So only you and me know about this place, right?’ Gordon could only nod. ‘Then it’s perfect. Give me your mobile number. I’ll text you when I want to see you here again.’

Gordon’s face blanched with dread. Bradley leered and patted his trouser pocket. ‘You can help me with my coin collection.’

Chapter Five

The walk home took fifteen minutes, but to drive it would have taken Chris twice as long with the temporary traffic lights in the High Street. His nerves had tightened before he’d even left the office. The night air was sopping with the occasional flap of wind. From the front entrance to his office he was able to survey both ends of the road, crawling with cars and pedestrians alike. And though there was nothing he could identify as threatening or out of place, neither could he shake off the feeling that somewhere in that puddled vista was a pair of eyes staring directly at him.

He pulled up his coat collar and stepped down to the pavement to merge with the masses. But if anything that sense of being watched intensified. And he’s following you now, too. He bit his lip as the urge to look behind him tapped him on the shoulder. Feeling exposed he put up his umbrella; but that only made him feel worse. A furled umbrella would make a useful weapon, he thought as he took it back down. He wouldn’t be caught off guard this time. Oh, just listen to yourself! You don’t even know there’s anyone there. But that was a lie.

He turned left up a short hill, which was well lit and still busy with pedestrians. But the crowd was thinning, and the night was getting darker. He quickened his pace, despite the gradient, and felt his thighs warm beneath his damp trouser legs. At the crest of the hill he crossed over and took the next right. Chris tried not to stare back as he crossed but was unable to resist a furtive glance.

His stomach gurgled as the knot there tightened. He glanced back again, this time to see a slim shadow dart behind a tree. For God’s sake, get a grip! But that tree was thick enough to conceal two people. No, no. He works alone. The shadow did not reappear. ‘Because there’s no one there,’ he said aloud, and was relieved to find no one had heard him.

The next road was lined with parked cars on both sides. There were coppiced trees by the kerbside every ten meters, a postbox, a couple of litter bins, gardens with hedges and fences – so many everyday objects to hide behind. Chris flattened his collar despite the chill and listened to the clump, clump, clump of his own footsteps echoing beneath him, leaden-footed, clumsy. He needed a drink, a lie down, a deadlock and a couple of door bolts. Straining his senses he guessed that the pavement behind him was now empty – or nearly empty. Then he heard what he had been dreading: in the spaces between his heavy clumping feet he heard a much lighter tread keeping pace behind him. Those steps belonged to someone full of energy and purpose; someone fitter if not necessarily younger.

Chris walked on, his mind attempting to calculate the number of steps remaining to his front gate, surely only in the hundreds. The pursuing footsteps maintained their steady rhythm. Not soft enough to be trainers, not loud enough to be boots. Drug addicts always wore trainers, as did pickpockets and muggers. Or did muggers prefer boots in case they needed to give someone a good kicking? Chris strained his hearing, cocking his neck a little to one side. No, that was the sound of well-cobbled work shoes, designed for the sedentary comfort of an office. So maybe their owner was just another commuter keen to find a stiff drink in front of the six o’clock news. If he turned around very quickly he might even find it was someone he worked with.

Chris tightened his hold on the umbrella’s handle, urging his legs to greater effort. He imagined spinning around and pushing a button in the umbrella’s handle that dropped the hinged tip, revealing a hypodermic needle. No, if it came down to it Chris would have to jab at an eye socket or the groin and then scarper. Turning into his own road, the urge to just drop his belongings and leg it was almost overwhelming. The pursuing footsteps grew louder and quicker. They were gaining on him. Closing in for the kill. Chris pushed on, his teeth set hard together, as his front gate came into view. A few dozen more steps and he’d be safe.

His lungs started to burn as he adopted the stride of a power walker. What the two men must look like to a passerby… But that thought only reminded Chris that there were no witnesses. Inviting lights burned behind curtained windows. Would anyone hear him cry out above the sound of the wind and television and kids squabbling? The wind gusted in answer, blotting out the sound of footfalls. When it dropped again, Chris heard those lighter footsteps jogging.

Adrenaline flushed through his heart and his legs were sprinting before he had time to think. Now was the time he really regretted giving up his gym membership. The front gate loomed. With a grateful moan he noticed that Bradley had again left it unlatched. The damp breeze slapped him across the face and a paper coffee cup skipped across the road. So be a good boy and hand it over! a voice echoed in his mind. But that crucial element of surprise was lost. This time it would be Chris that held the upper hand. And with that thought he imagined the hypodermic tip of his umbrella penetrating an eye. He wouldn’t see that coming, the bastard.

As he reached out for the gate Chris watched in horror as a stronger gust pushed it closed, the latch rattling home. His feet slapped against the pavement; blood rushed through his ears. Thrusting his umbrella under his left arm Chris flipped the latch up and pushed himself through in one fluid movement, mindful to slam the gate behind him again as he went. The door promised safety. His eyes went straight to the small mocking face of the Yale lock. His hand was already in his pocket, searching for the house keys, his ears straining to hear the sound of the gate latch set free once more. Surprised at his own dexterity Chris pulled out his key bunch and stabbed the front door key home, twisting and pushing forward simultaneously. He almost fell inside, his umbrella and case flying through the air, and with a groan of desperation he pushed the front door closed with his backside. Blood thundered through his veins like a washing machine in a spin. Panting he waited for a heavy thump against the door, but even the gate latch remained silent. Water dripped around his feet like urine.

Breath bellowed back and forth through his throat, a light sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead. An hysterical laugh escaped him that he barely recognised as his own. ‘You idiot!’ Had he seen anyone? Yes there had been running footsteps behind him, but it could have been a boyfriend rushing to an after-work date or someone heading for the railway station or... His breathe stopped short in his lungs and his hand slapped his trouser pocket.

A low moan escaped him, as his mind’s eye supplied the answer he dreaded: his key bunch dangling from the lock outside. No worries; there were bolts inside. He was still safe. But no, he couldn’t just leave them out there; not unless he was prepared to change several locks at no small expense. And would a locksmith be prepared to change all his locks out of hours? That meant a long night listening to every bump and scrape coming from outside. Maybe he could barricade the back door with furniture? No, that would be ridiculous given how close those keys were to him right now. The wind rattled the gate. Yet what if the mugger was still out there, a great here’s Johnnie! grin on his face as he starred at the dangling keys waiting for the door to reopen?

He bit his knuckles, paralyzed by indecision. Then he had an idea and grasped it with both hands. But don’t forget… If he went upstairs, looked out from a bedroom window without the light on first… Don’t forget to… Yes, check that the coast was clear and then get the keys back. Simple. He was already halfway up the stairs when he heard a familiar grating sound from behind him.

But don’t forget to bolt the front door first, you idiot! Chris turned to watch in horror as the front door lurched inwards. The security chain rattled against the frame, unsecured; the door bolts as useless as rifles without triggers. Chris’ heart lurched back down the stairs, leaving him dizzy and weak above. How could he have been so stupid?

‘Dad, you’ve…’ Bradley stopped when he saw the terrified look on his father’s face. ‘You’ve left your keys in the door.’

Chris let out a long sigh of relief. But he still couldn’t relax until that door was shut again.

‘Yes, I know, Brad. I was just coming down to get them.’

Chris descended two steps at a time, pulled open the front door and avoided looking at anything but the keys. ‘Thanks.’ He quickly slammed the door back home and clutched his keys till his palm hurt. Bradley headed off to find the television remote. Adolescents were so self-absorbed it was bordering on autism; they noticed only their own needs.

The blood still whooshed through his head like something had burst. No harm done, really, Chris decided as he slipped both bolts across and popped on the chain. He let out a bray of relief, ignorant of the fact that he had overlooked two important things.

But then single parents noticed only their own needs.

Chapter Six

You can’t go wrong with pasta, he remembered someone telling him. But that was obviously a joke, he decided, staring at the lake of cloudy water in which his spaghetti floundered. Bradley did not even pause to consider it, and one forkful was enough to convince Chris it was only fit for the bin. He understood now why chefs used such foul language. Still, the boy’s attitude irked him. Chris was doing his best to look after him and the house and hold down a full-time job. He wondered how Bradley was doing at school and hoped that no news was good news. Then again they didn’t seem to notice when kids were carrying offensive weapons in some schools.

Thinking back to his irrational behaviour of earlier did little to improve his mood. For God’s sake! As if someone would follow him, let alone chase him down the street! But if they did, they know where you live now. Chris screwed up his eyes and wondered how long the aftershocks of his mugging would last. Perhaps he should ask the quack for a sedative. Damn you, Tess! The fact that he had been running up the stairs when Bradley had waltzed in and the tiny smirk of recognition on the boy’s lips had still failed to register in Chris’ mind.

The living room door opened suddenly and in slouched his son. Chris opened his mouth to speak but the boy kept his eyes to the floor. The kitchen door swallowed him up, leaving Chris simmering in the main course of a cookery programme. At the end of the day it was only a matter of heat and bloody ingredients. Chris watched as the smiling television presenter dropped spices into a bubbling pan and stewed with envy.

At least we’re not fighting. But maybe that was the problem. Real men didn’t debate, they argued. The constant apprehension in the house was like waiting by an oven door with a soufflé inside. That at least made him smile; he’d only just mastered omelettes. ‘Time to break a few eggs,’ he decided, marching towards the kitchen.

Bradley was making a sandwich the hard way. An image jumped into Chris’ mind of Daniel Day Lewis in My Left Foot. The butter, bread, cheese, mayonnaise and ham were already spread across the worktop like the aftermath of a burst shopping bag. Oblivious, Bradley picked up a knife and jabbed it into the margarine. There was definitely no hope of a father and son catering venture on the horizon.

‘I hope you’ll clear that up,’ Chris growled, not knowing how else to start. ‘Brad?’

‘Well, it’s my mess, isn’t it?’ Bradley scoffed, keeping his eyes locked on the bread.

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning yes, I’ll clear it up.’

‘Bradley, I was only…’

‘We talked about it in school, actually.’ Bradley looked up briefly, the smirk in the corner of his mouth like a winking eye. ‘Responsibility, actions having consequences. All that stuff.’

‘Listen, Bradley. I’m doing my best here, you know. I don’t see you helping out much in the kitchen, so I’d like you to clear up any mess you make - if that’s not too much to ask.’

‘And I said I would, didn’t I?’ The voice was high, strained with emotion. Bradley offered up his buttered slice as Exhibit A for the defence.

Bradley returned his attention to the sandwich making, the turning his back on his father a very deliberate provocation. ‘We need to start talking about our situation here, Brad. We’re in this together, remember?’ Chris hoped there might be tears lurking on the periphery of the conversation, anything that would force things out into the open. ‘I mean we’ve both lost someone important in our lives…’

‘And whose fault is that?’ Bradley spat back, the grip on the knife tightening.

‘Listen, your mother has…’

‘She isn’t here because of you!’

‘Life isn’t always so black and white, Brad. These things are never clear cut.’

Bradley started hacking away at the block of cheddar. ‘I know what happened. I’m not deaf. Or stupid.’

The truth will out. What famous do-gooder had said that? ‘Brad, what are you talking about?’

‘I heard the arguments, Dad. I know what happened…’

‘It was her decision to go. No one forced her. If she’d stayed we could have worked things out.’

‘I said, I know, Dad!’ the boy screeched, his wet eyes wild and wide.

There was something odd about this conversation, Chris decided, something elusive but essential. Chris worried about the best way to proceed tactically and opted for conciliation. ‘Just because…’

‘And not just arguing either!’ Bradley yelled.

Chris stepped closer, keeping his voice low. ‘Bradley, listen. Those arguments must have sounded a lot worse than they were, but I give you my word…’

‘Bull…sugar.’

‘Bradley!’

Bradley lurched backward, the knife still clenched in his hand and a look of terror in his eyes. ‘Why couldn’t it have been you, Dad? Why can’t you disappear?’ Bradley screamed, slapping the knife down loudly on the counter.

‘Listen, your mother and I had problems for years and in the end things just…’

‘I don’t believe you!’ Bradley returned to his increasingly chaotic sandwich experiment, his hands and brain seemingly at greater odds than father and son.

‘But you have to believe me, Brad. It’s what happened! It was your mother that…’

Bradley finished off his angry sandwich and sloshed himself a noisy glass of milk. The worktop was wilfully messy. The knife tipped over the edge of the worktop and clanged to the floor like a bell.

‘No, Dad! You’re what happened! You caused this mess!’ And as if to emphasize the point he snatched up his glass and slopped milk over the breadcrumbs and mayo. Chris’ head started to pound. He couldn’t see the elephant in the room, only smell its dung.

‘You can’t talk to me like that, Bradley. Please go to your room after you’ve cleaned...’

Bradley stormed off, drops of milk spitting left and right. ‘No! You do it, Daddy!’ He balanced the plate on top of the glass in order to open the kitchen door, exercising an impressive dexterity in the process. Then he was gone, his footsteps clumping up the stairs towards the sanctuary of his bedroom.

‘Brad!’ Chris shouted after him, recovering his authority far too late. ‘What the hell?’ he asked the mutilated cheese. Round One to the twelve-year-old, then. He looked down at the smears of margarine still slalomed between plastic tubs and jars. It really was a terrible mess.

Chapter Seven

There were times over the next two days that he feared he might have a stroke. He frequently embroiled himself in petty arguments with colleagues; caught a cold that quickly blocked one ear; and made endless errors and omissions at work. He lost his appetite, whilst trebling his caffeine intake. He left a tub of ice cream out overnight and grilled a plastic knife on toast for breakfast. Every shadow was a lurking figure, every gust of wind a hiss of menace. He went to bed with the light on and then later the radio at low volume; though neither strategy earned him sleep.

So when the second attack came it was something of a relief. At least I know I’m not crazy, Chris thought as the weight slamming between his shoulder blades sent him flying. And yes, despite his hyper-vigilance, the assault had still caught him by surprise. Why does he always attack from behind? Chris fumed as the familiar forearm snaked around his throat and pulled his head back. Just let me see you coming next time and we’ll see who hits the ground first. He didn’t have the first idea where to buy pepper spray, but surely any aerosol would blind – hairspray, furniture polish… Everything in his field of vision went red for a few seconds, and when it returned to normal callous laughter was caressing his cheek on a warm rush of breath.

‘You’ve been avoiding me. Don’t you us want to be mates?’

Chris started to reach down, but the stranglehold tightened immediately.

‘It’s all right, Mr. Haynes. I know where to look.’ A rough hand buried itself deep into his trouser pocket, fingering out the loose change. The obvious question forced its way up his throat like vomit.

‘H-How… How do you…?’

His assailant chuckled. ‘I don’t think you know what’s going on here, do you?’ The pressure around his neck slackened a little, but the pain in his back made it hard to concentrate. ‘Perhaps that little thug of a son can enlighten you.’

‘Bradley..?’ Chris immediately cursed himself for using the name. The snake tightened its hold on his windpipe. Chris was aware of his small change being scraped across the tarmac followed by a sigh of disappointment.

‘Ever been abroad, Haynes?’ the voice hissed in his ear.

Chris was suddenly furious, and despite the pain he tried to roll over onto his side, spitting and swearing as he did. ‘What the hell does….’

‘Wrong answer.’ His throat was clamped shut completely and the knee in the small of his back had a grown man’s weight behind it. His vision flushed red once more but somehow he didn’t pass out. ‘I’ll ask the questions. All right?’

The pressure and weight relented, but Chris exercised his defiance by saying nothing.

‘Only my boy’s a collector.’ The menacing voice tickled the lobe of his right ear, as a hand slapped his empty pocket playfully. ‘So next time I expect to find a few surprises in here, all right?’ He snorted at his own joke. ‘Think of it as homework.’

And with a final thrust from his knee his assailant pushed himself back into the shadows. Chris slowly rolled over. Hard stars glared down at him through the clouds of his bellowing breath. After what seemed like ten minutes, Chris pulled himself up onto his knees.

Now he would have to go to the police, give a statement, possibly let forensics dust him down or whatever it was they did. It was all so bloody annoying. These nutters should be locked up or at least supervised more closely. They were a danger to normal people. This one had obviously become obsessed with him, the sad bugger. Care in the community? More like stare in the community.

With a groan Chris stood upright, though he had to lean against a tree as the red tinge re-entered his vision. He felt like he’d been hit by a van.

‘Here, you all right, mate?’

Chris stared down at his feet until his eyes behaved themselves. ‘I’m fine. Just tripped, that’s all.’ Up some stairs.

‘Let me give you a hand with those,’ the stranger said, bending down to the pavement. He dropped the silver into Chris’ hand, but all he could think about was the madman’s description of his son as a thug.

He couldn’t go to the police before he’d to spoken to Bradley first, find out if any strange men had been talking to or following him; or if he was having problems with other kids at school. Make sure you’re not dropping him in it, you mean? Then they would go to the police together - unless Bradley really did have something to hide.

Hobbling homeward it suddenly occurred to him that he might have some French centimes in his desk drawer. He rubbed his aching head, feeling weak and nauseous. It wouldn’t come to that, though, surely?

But why not? whispered a dark inner voice. It’s no longer you that’s in control.

Chapter Eight

Chris had planned to devote that Saturday to his son anyway, but now the agenda had changed. His spine was a rod inserted into his back without anaesthetic. His shoulders felt like they were encased in concrete. Sleep had been virtually impossible, but at least the empty pre-dawn hours had reignited his appetite. The four-a.m. tea and toast had never tasted better, even if he did have to follow it with painkillers.

Bradley suggested roller skating, which opened at ten o’clock. Chris agreed, though the only thing harder for him to participate in would have been a parachute jump. Bradley also wanted to bring a friend, but Chris managed to talk him out of it. Bradley was a keen skater, and accomplished too, but baulked at his father’s suggestion to take it more seriously. Apparently skating clubs were ‘gay’, whatever that meant.

‘Whew! I didn’t realise the rink would be so packed. Is it always like that?’ Chris was exhausted. Even as a spectator the circling figures had made his head spin.

‘Wheelers? Always. Sometimes you can’t get in for hours.’

‘Sorry I couldn’t join you.’

Bradley shrugged, his hair flapping between them like a limp flag. Chris was grateful he wasn’t in one of his stroppy moods. In fact, this was as relaxed as he’d seen his son in weeks. Agreeing to eat lunch in Bradley’s favourite pizza restaurant certainly helped.

‘I’m sorry,’ Bradley blurted out. ‘About the sandwich.’

Choose your words carefully, Daddy-O. ‘Me too.’

Bradley sighed. ‘I should have helped clear up.’

The aroma of melted cheese and onion was making him regret having only a starter, so when asked if they wanted to see the dessert menu Chris practically ripped it out of the girl’s hand.

‘I think there are more important things going wrong than our cleaning arrangements.’ They both ordered Mississippi Mud Pies. Chris decided to wade in. ‘Can we talk about that?’

‘What’s the obsession you guys have with ‘talking’?’ Bradley frowned.

By ‘you guys’ Chris assumed Bradley meant parents. ‘You know, entering your teens is a difficult transition for any child…’ Hell, that sounded like something straight from a child development textbook. ‘But when your home life is already strained…’ Even Brad’s teachers didn’t talk like that, he felt sure. His back went into spasm unexpectedly, making him stiffen in his seat. ‘What I mean to say…’ he grimaced.

‘I thought you’d quit the gym, Dad.’

Chris studied his son’s face and realised that what he had mistaken for calm was actually cockiness. There was certainly no sign of the previous kitchen worktop insecurity. Maybe it wasn’t just Daddy’s agenda that had changed.

‘I just think we need to get things out in the open, clear the air.’

Just be natural. He’s your son not a job candidate. So why did Chris feel like he was the one being interviewed?

A smirk flickered impishly across Bradley’s face. ‘So let’s talk, Dad.’

Chris waited for his back to stop screaming and tried to ignore the sensation that Bradley was just waiting for his next faux pas. ‘How’s school?’

Bradley slowly sipped his refilled coke. ‘Parents Evening was only a few weeks back. Mum was there, remember?’

‘I know how you’re doing lesson-wise,’ Chris answered. Bradley just stared down into his cup. ‘Tell me about your friends…’

‘What’s to tell?’

Chris plunged onward, no longer caring what might be the right or wrong thing to say. ‘So who’s your best friend now? Is it still Peter?’

‘Peter? Peter changed schools, Dad. Don’t you remember?’ Bradley pushed his pizza crust around the plate. ‘I have made one new friend recently. But he’s… different.’ Chris felt the hairs stir at the back of his neck. Bradley’s smirk was back. ‘We have a secret den we go to after school sometimes.’

‘So what’s his name, this new friend?’ This time it was the boy’s turn to stiffen in his seat. ‘Perhaps he could come round for tea one night.’

‘Yer, right!’ Brad snorted. ‘And a sleep-over?’

Chris misread the sarcasm. ‘If you like.’

The generous deserts arrived. ‘I have a question,’ Bradley announced suddenly.

‘Sure. If it’s about us.’

Bradley leaned forward in his chair and scooped up a fat spoonful of pie. ‘It is. In a way.’

Chris felt the tension swelling behind his eyes. Whatever was coming, the boy was preparing himself to enjoy it – a different sort of mugging.

He looked his father full in the face, that scornful little grin scurrying around the corners of his mouth.

‘What’s happened to your back, Dad?’

Chapter Nine

Watching Gordon’s attempts to ingratiate himself with his peers was pitiful; he seemed to have a sixth sense when it came to choosing exactly the wrong boys to approach. He was hopeless at football, had only the most rudimentary computer games skills and dressed like someone from another era. Indeed, Gordon now spent a lot of his time with girls, much to everyone’s amusement – the girls included. Hating Gordon was fast becoming the most popular pastime in school.

In many ways the weekend past had been by far the worst since Mum had vanished. Dad was obviously going out of his way to master his role as dickhead of the family. But it was the injuries that really interested Bradley. Talk about accident prone. First the unknown staircase, and now whatever had damaged his back on Friday. He had cried off actually skating at the rink and winced at the slightest movement. It was fun making the old man wave to him as he sat stiffly upright, barely able to draw in half a lungful of air. But it only delayed the nauseating ‘chat’ that followed.

Now Monday was behind him, too, and he was back in the wood by the industrial estate. He pushed aside a low-hanging branch and there was the signalman’s hut sticking out from the railway embankment like a poor man’s castle. One section of corrugated tin had been pushed aside already. Gordon had got there first. Good. He frowned momentarily as something firm and heavy bulldozed through his thoughts, hitting the back of his skull and then dropping down to form a lump in his throat. What would his mother think of all this? Bradley stared at the darkness beyond the threshold of the hut, relishing the prospect of seeing Gordon alone again. He probably wouldn’t even be here if Mum was still around; but now that she wasn’t he wanted not just to see Gordon’s suffering but to hear it, touch it… Taste it. The lump dropped into his guts so suddenly that for a second he felt certain he’d messed himself. He stepped forward.

Inside Gordon was standing behind his pathetic garden chair, as if for protection. He stared wide-eyed for a second then spread that unconvincing smile across his mouth by way of a peace offering. Bradley blinked, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom.

‘Got here as soon as the bell went, like you said,’ Gordon beamed.

Bradley stifled a yawn. He was finding it harder to sleep these days; it took longer to nod off and he was always awake with the birds. He glared at Gordon, reminding himself why he was there. He felt his heartbeat quicken. ‘Stop staring at me.’

Gordon obliged, and started rustling in his carrier bag. ‘I got three different flavours...’

‘Got Worcester Sauce flavour?’ Bradley smiled inwardly at Gordon’s uncomfortable frown. ‘I’m kidding. Cheese and onion will do.’ Gordon tossed over a packet. Bradley let himself sink into the camping chair and buried his hand in the quickly opened packet. ‘I saw you running in the cross-country race earlier. You looked whacked.’

‘I know. I’ve got asthma, but they still make me do it.’

‘Is that why you don’t join in at football during break?’ he asked, knowing full well it wasn’t.

‘Dad doesn’t like me to scuff my shoes.’

Bradley glanced down at the black school shoes that already looked third hand and guessed there wasn’t much still holding them together. ‘Dads, hey?’

‘It’s a dirty job but someone has to do it, I suppose,’ Gordon smiled.

‘What’s that club you do on Tuesdays?’

Gordon looked anguished. ‘Promise you won’t laugh?’

Bradley leapt forward, centimetres from Gordon’s flinching face. ‘Of course I’ll laugh. If it wasn’t something to laugh about you wouldn’t have kept it a secret, now would you?’

The look on Gordon’s face was priceless. Cowering, like a cornered animal. Oh yes, this was a big deal for Gordon, all right. Gordon looked down into the carrier bag, as if contemplating whether it was possible to hide there.

‘It’s not a club. I have to do extra maths on Tuesdays. I’ve got dyscalculia.’

‘You’ve got what!’

Gordon seemed anxious for a hole to appear beneath him and spare him the agony of explanation. ‘Well, you know Jane Harrison has dyslexia?’

‘Can’t read, can’t spell, writes like she’s on a Ferris wheel. I know.’

‘Well, it’s a bit like that only with me it’s numbers rather than words.’

Bradley stared for several seconds, revelling in Gordon’s embarrassment. Just as it seemed that he might try changing the subject, Bradley threw back his head and let out the biggest, deepest burst of laughter he could muster. He didn’t need to look at Gordon; he could sense his shame wafting across the hut like a fart.

‘I’m only telling you because you’re a mate,’ Gordon declared.

Bradley stopped laughing. ‘You’re telling me because you have to, Gordon. And don’t you forget it.’

Gordon eyes widened in alarm. ‘Sure, Brad. But you wouldn’t tell anyone, would you?’

Everyone already knows, you idiot. ‘So what’s two plus two?’

‘It’s not that bad, Brad. I’m not stupid.’

‘But you’re special needs, right?’

Gordon turned away, deflated. ‘Well. I suppose…’

‘No suppose about it, pal,’ Bradley snorted. ‘You’re mentally disabled.’ Gordon stared at the floor. ‘Educationally subnormal, is what they called it in my dad’s day. I heard him talk about it once.’ He moved up closer still and whispered: ‘Or as my granddad used to say: retarded.’

Gordon failed to respond, and Bradley noticed that he was trembling slightly. Was he about to lash out? Bradley hoped so. If it came the assault was bound to be as pathetic as its owner and allow Bradley the righteous liberty to give him a good kicking. All Bradley needed to do was push him over the edge.

He put on his best careers’ advisor voice. ‘So what job do you hope to get after school, young Gordon? Let’s look at your prospects.’ And with gusto he spun the camping chair about face and perched himself behind it, pretending to hold a clipboard and pen. ‘Accountancy’s out, of course; as is working in any kind of retail setting. Street cleaning, that doesn’t require any counting; nor does being a lavatory attendant. I used to know a lavatory attendant,’ Bradley chuckled, ‘he said the hours were shit but he never got caught short…’

That was when Bradley heard Gordon’s first sob. Oh, give me strength… Gordon’s sobs deepened, becoming more frequent like a gathering shower. And with it Bradley became aware of something stirring in his own heart. He set his teeth together.

‘If you want me to keep your little secret, Gordon, I’d shut the hell up right now.’

There was a burning sensation in Bradley’s stomach. Not even when Mr. McGuire made him rewrite his geography homework in detention every Wednesday did he feel rage like this. But at least it filled a void within him, like air being pumped into a football. The only problem was when the pumping didn’t stop and a sickening dizziness spilled through his brain. He tasted acid in his mouth and felt certain that everything would come up if he didn’t throw a punch soon. Bradley leapt from his chair and strode towards Gordon.

Bradley did not know what he was going to do until it happened. He reached out for Gordon’s gaping mouth and pinched his trembling lips between his fingers. Gordon yelped, his face a picture of shock and indignation. Bradley squeezed harder, laughing, pulling the other boy’s face out of shape. He laughed harder.

‘Ow! Bwrad! Bwrad, w-what are you do-wing?’

A tear dropped from Gordon’s eye onto Bradley’s hand and immediately the spell was broken. He looked at Gordon’s greasy skin, his recycled clothes and rubbish shoes and felt ashamed. He felt the words ‘I’m sorry’ sliding round his mouth like half-chewed cabbage and bit down on his own lip. Sometimes it felt like he had never hated anyone as much as he hated Gordon, not even his dad. But then something like this would happen and the only person he hated was himself.

Letting go of Gordon’s mouth he murmured: ‘Just… Don’t let it happen again.’

Bradley turned away, his head swimming like it did after a fairground ride. A memory overpowered him, Dad snarling at his mother: ‘One day you’ll push me too far, Tess!’ So did that make it Mum’s fault? Was it her defiance that had landed them all in this mess; that sarcastic response that so angered his father? Bradley’s lips moved before he could stop them: ‘I think you need help, Charlie.’

‘W-what?’

Bradley stared ahead but all he could see was his mother’s tear-stained face. Bradley suddenly felt like crying as his mother’s face faded as quickly as it had arrived. ‘And stop bloody staring at me!’

Gordon looked