Bestwick - Lets Drink to the Dead

MORE STORIES OF THE FACELESS

LETS DRINK

TO THE DEAD

SIMON BESTWICK

SOLARIS

First published 2012 by Solaris

an imprint of Rebellion Publishing Ltd,

Riverside House, Osney Mead,

Oxford, OX2 0ES, UK

www.solarisbooks.com

ISBN (EPUB): 978-1-84997-470-7

ISBN (MOBI): 978-1-84997-471-4

Copyright 2012 Simon Bestwick

Cover Art and Design by Sam Howle

The right of the author to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owners.

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

ALSO BY SIMON BESTWICK

Tomes of The Dead: Tide of Souls

Pictures of the Dark

Angels of the Silences

A Hazy Shade of Winter

The Faceless

To Jon Oliver

A good man is hard to find.

THE SIGHT

1985. MAGGIES IN Downing Street, Gods in his heaven, alls right with the world.

And Walsh is in the kitchen, in the back of 35 Shackleton Street, in the Lancashire town of Kempforth, filling the kettle and putting it on the hob. He strikes a match and lights the gas, blows the match out, douses it under the cold tap and flicks it in the kitchen bin. Walsh is not a man who takes chances.

The house is silent. He almost feels alone. Veras upstairs, but she doesnt count anymore. Hell need to find a way of getting shut of her. Shouldve done that first, before her brother, but

That thought ends for him half-completed as the first bolt of pain tears through his chest and flies down his arm. He has a moment to try and convince himself it isnt what he knows it is, and then the pain hits again and he fights for breath. He yanks a kitchen drawer out with a crash, pulls one of the chairs over with him as he falls to the lino, and puts his strength into a shout.

Feet thunder on the staircase. Vera stands in the kitchen doorway: nineteen years old, in a Smiths T-shirt and a denim skirt. Little tart, he has time to think before the bolt hits again.

Phone! he chokes out. Vera half-turns towards the living-room, then turns back to him. Ambulance.

At first he thinks she hasnt understood him. But then when she pulls up one of the surviving chairs and swivels it so its got its back to him, then sits astride it, Christine Keeler-style little tart and props her chin on her arms to watch him as intently as a child watching the progress of a caterpillar, Walsh realises she understands alright. She understands just fine.

THE CELLAR IS damp and cold. Theres a stone or concrete floor, Alan thinks, but he cant be sure as its filmed over with scattered earth. Something digs painfully into his knee; he cant move.

Over to his right, Mark, the littlest, is crying, or at least as best he can through the ball gag in his mouth. Behind them are Johnny and Sam. Alan is the eldest of the three at fourteen, head and shoulders over the other kids; theyre all between eight and ten.

He knows them all; hes known them for years. Years of being brought to houses like these for the pleasure of men who lust after children. Thereve been other children, of course; thereve been other friendships, other alliances, mute compacts of solidarity in places like this when all you can do is alternately feel for the others suffering and give thanks it isnt you. He knows them all and, god help him, hes an elder among them.

But theyve never been to this place before. Its never been quite like this.

Alans hands are tied behind his back. His crossed ankles are tied together too, and hes gagged like Mark, like all the others. They were made to strip Daddy Adrian was there, and so were Mr Fitton, and Yolly. Mr Fitton had a knife, but Daddy Adrian just had his smile and that cold tone of voice he used, the one that said do it or Ill hurt you, whatever the actual words were. And so theyd stripped and let Mr Fitton tie them up. Mr Fitton had cooed and patted Alans shoulders, fondled them, kneaded them like dough. Which was a bit funny, because Alan sometimes thought Mr Fitton was like a bowl of dough. A big, big bowl of hot greasy dough that fell on top of you from behind and crushed your face into the mattress so that you couldnt breathe even if you could have got any air into the lungs hed flattened. A great mound of greasy dough, but with a big metal spike hidden in there that gouged and ripped and tore.

And the cellar is cold and dark but above all the cellar is silent. The only noise is Mark crying that and a scurrying, scuttling sound from one corner a rat, most like. Theres no other noise. Sam will be keeping quiet, toughing it out as best he can, trying to find an angle, a way to play it, refusing to admit what they all, deep-down, know: that the angles are all played out and theres no escape this time. And Johnny, Johnny will be rocking back and forth, trying as always to imagine himself in the world of one of his beloved books, to convince himself this isnt happening. Until someone Fitton or Daddy Adrian, Father Joe or the Policeman comes along to convince him that it is. But that wont happen again. Something worse than any of them is coming now.

Shut up, says Mr Fitton. Alan flinches, the shoulders Mr Fitton kneaded only minutes ago twitching, but its not him Mr Fitton means. Its Mark.

Marks sobs choke and stumble, but dont stop. Mr Fittons heavy clomping footsteps sound. His breaths hoarse and wheezy. Alan flinches again at the hard meaty smack of flesh on flesh. A short, squealing cry from Mark. I said shut up!

Marks sobs hitch and stutter. He wants to stop, hes trying to, but he cant, hes so scared. Why cant Mr Fitton see that? Or perhaps he cant do the things he does if he lets himself see that. The thought surprises Alan. I thought I told you to shut up, says Mr Fitton in a high, rising voice that sounds like gears grinding, and raises his hand to strike again.

Mr Fitton, take it easy, Yolly says. You dont want to mark him.

Dont tell me what I want to do, says Mr Fitton. Alan can see his fat, sweaty face from the corner of his eyes. The quick dark eyes flick up and stare into Alans. What are you looking at? Mr Fitton spits out, and Alan looks away. Mr Fitton always used to like him, even when he hurt Alan. Said nice things. That he loved Alan, would take him away one of these days. But none of that matters now, does it?

Shrike dunt like em marked, Mr Fitton, Yolly says, then claps a hand to his mouth and falls silent, shaking.

Mr Fitton goes still, sweating, swallows hard, and finally his hand drops. No, he says. No, he doesnt. He looks back down at Mark. But you, you little shit, you stop your snivelling.

Mark whimpers. Mr Fitton breathes through his nose.

Easy, Mr Fitton. Yolly comes forward. Hes not that much older than Alan, about Alans sisters age. As far as the likes of Mr Fitton and Daddy Adrian are concerned, he might as well be ancient, though. They used to do the same things to him they do to Alan and the other boys here. Now hes too old for that, but Mr Fitton lets him help in the butchers shop. And now he does to others the things that used to be done to him. Yolly kneels beside Mark. Greasy mop of blonde hair, face spattered with acne. He strokes the boys hair and back, like hes gentling an animal. Easy. Easy. Hush now. His hand trails down to stroke Marks bum.