‘Almost there,’ Mike lied, ‘five minutes.’
‘Keep your bloody phone on!’ Ian ended the call.
Mike sighed, slid a CD into the player. Jumped to Track 4, prepared to sing along with Jagger: ‘Hey You Get Off My Cloud’.
Zak
Topping up his phone had used up what was left from the supermarket money. And he only made a tenner on the stuff from the house. Everyone had a camera these days and the people in the pub slagged off the one he was flogging: no video and only two megapixels, they’d better on their phones. The jewellery brought a bit more.
He bought half an ounce of Golden Virginia and some Rizlas, a bottle of Lambrini. In the shop they were talking about the murder. Zak didn’t want to hear it. Made him remember the way Carlton had looked at him, trapped in the window. And if Carlton knew Zak had seen him shoot, what then? He’d be coming after Zak before too long – to shut him up.
He was living in an old house near Plattfields Park. Not on the council estate but the other side of Wilmslow Road. The place was scheduled for demolition, chain link fencing and warning signs. Zak wasn’t much of a reader but he could tell what the red and white sign with the picture of an Alsatian meant. And he knew it was just for show. Any hint of a real guard dog and Bess would have let on.
There was a gap below the fencing at one side where a part of the low garden wall had collapsed. He only needed to shove some bricks aside to wriggle under and Bess had followed.
The house was full of damp and the garden thick with saplings and brambles. Now they were in leaf and hid most of the building. It looked blind: sheets of chipboard nailed over the windows and doors. When he first found it, he could see they’d been there a good while. Broken guttering poured rainwater on to the sheet over the side door and the wood had gone black and green with mould, the bottom swelling with rot.
It hadn’t taken Zak much effort to work one edge loose, lumps of wood crumbling off like Weetabix and woodlice scurrying away. A couple of kicks had got him through the brittle door behind.
Now, when he came and went, he could swing the chipboard out a couple of feet and push it back in place. From any distance the property still looked secure.
No electrics so it was pitch dark day and night, and full of creepy crawlies, but it was safer than the streets.
Zak had nicked some candles from the health food shop. Big, fat yellow ones that burned for hours. The driest room was at the back. The old dining room. He’d got his sleeping bag in there and there was a massive fireplace where he could burn stuff. The smoke came back in the room but it was worth it to see the flames dancing and feel the glow of heat. The place was stone cold even now in summer and come winter he thought it’d be unbearable. Unless he got hold of some sort of arctic clothing, bearskin or summat, like explorers use. He’d have to move on. Maybe find out if his mam was sorted out now and move back there.