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  The thud as the pool cue connected with Brand’s head shocked Dan back to reality.

  Did it!

  The impact juddered the cue in his grip, but he managed to keep hold as it glanced from Brand’s skull, hit the ceiling and dropped back down. Dan went limp for a moment, the cue resting on the floor, but then he lifted it again and brought it up in a short arc into Brand’s back. He held it tighter this time and felt the meaty hardness of the man’s shoulders beneath the wood.

  He remembered the sight of Megan’s wide, white eyes glaring from a mask of her own blood. The way she had stared at him, no emotion there other than fear, not feeling safe even when he hugged her and whispered that everything was alright, she was safe, there was only the two of them in the house now …

  Brand slumped to his knees and rested with his forehead against the front of the bar. He had a bald patch on top of his head. Nobody’s perfect, Dan thought, and he hit him again, a short sharp smack to the back of the head that split the cue. He could not see Brand’s face-his long hair swung forward and concealed his expression from view-but his groans told the whole truth. Brand was only half conscious. His left foot twitched and thumped a brief, loud tattoo on the bar floor.

  Loud, because all else was silent. Dan was trapped with his own breathing and pounding heartbeat. The others in the bar-Norris, Brady, Justin-all stared at him with vacant disbelief.

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  Their wide eyes reminded him of Megan.

  He had not been there for her. She may have forgiven him, but he had never forgiven himself.

  “Bastard!” Dan hissed. He dropped the cue, stepped in and kicked the kneeling man in the back, hard, aiming for his kidneys and hoping that tomorrow he’d piss blood. Each time his foot connected-lower back, shoulders, head as Brand slipped to the floor at last-he felt sicker, but prouder. With the last kick he slipped in Brand’s spilled drink and sprawled on his back, grunting as the air whooshed from his lungs. He heard a giggle from the man on the floor. Hands closed around his upper arms. Brady and Justin hauled him upright and, winded, he could not resist.

  “Dan, for Christ’s sake!” Brady pleaded. “Dan!”

  “Did you hear what he said?” Dan asked, and verbalizing the question made it sound so stupid.

  “No,” Justin said. “Didn’t hear anything. Poor fuck just came in here for a drink. What the hell’s wrong with you?”

  Dan did not struggle but Brady kept hold of him, fingers digging into his bicep. He stared down at Brand. The man squirmed on the floor, and Dan smiled as he reached around to the back of his head and his hands came away bloody.

  I did that, he thought. Made him bleed. Made him bleed for Nikki.

  “I’m calling the police,” Norris said.

  “No,” a voice whispered, and for a moment it was right beside Dan’s ear again, so close that he turned to see whether Justin was whispering

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  something to him. But then the voice came again, and he realized that it was Brand.

  “No … don’t worry.” Slowly he stood, head down, hair still obscuring his face. A couple of droplets of blood fell and bloomed into rosettes on the floor.

  More dead stuff for Norris, Dan thought.

  Brand looked up and his face was a mask of blood.

  “Jesus,” Justin said. “You might need stitches.”

  Dan felt shock closing in. He began to shake and a sense of unreality widened the space around him, pushed him deeper down into himself. His brief game of pool minutes ago seemed days in the past, as did his family’s recent holiday, but his battering of Brand was still there in the here and now. His hand throbbed where it had been bruised by the cue, as if the impact was still occurring. His heart thumped. He was sweating.

  “That’s just not you, Dan,” Brand said quietly, so quietly that Dan was sure only he heard the words.

  “You leave my family alone!” he warned, more scared than he could understand, more disturbed by Brand’s words than he could explain.

  “Dan, for fuck’s sake, he’s not doing anything to your family,” Brady said, digging his fingers cruelly into his friend’s arm before letting go at last.

  Norris still had the telephone receiver in his hand, and an impersonal voice was telling the room to Please hang up and try again later. “I’d like you to leave, Dan,” he said.

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  He looked at Norris and nodded. What else could he expect?

  Brady and Justin frowned and said goodbye. They watched him leave the bar without moving to see him out. Whatever brief madness had overcome him, they obviously thought it had now passed. Either that or they were afraid it was catching.

  Brand had stood up and now leaned on the bar. His hair covered the new whiskey glass he held cupped in his palms. He did not look up, did not even register the sound of the door opening and closing as Dan left. The back of his head glistened blackly in the hazy atmosphere. The blood on the floor had smeared and already looked dry.

  “See you around!” a voice whispered, promised, as Dan left the building.

  The cold clapped around his ears and sucked breath from him, but he still found the energy to run to the Freelander. His footprints punched into the melting snow, waiting for morning and the sun to remove them from this place forever.

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  Chapter Four

  Nikki could hear her dad bustling in the kitchen. Her bedroom curtains were open. Sunlight flooded in. Reality was fluid, and it was a few seconds (who am I, why are the curtains open, why’s Dad up so early, where’s Brand, what time is it, what day, what year) before she sat up, rubbed her eyes and remembered everything.

  The snow had mostly gone. She’d never seen such a sudden thaw. Birds flurried past the window, larking around now that the ground and trees were partially exposed and they could eat again. There was no one watching the house from the treeline, although perhaps there had been last night, staring as she undressed in front of the lit window and offered her young secrets for view. She felt weird thinking that. Last night it had seemed sexy, delicious, ghost-tongues of

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  cool air teasing her nipples without touching. This morning it felt all wrong.

  Two days left of the Easter holiday. Her dad was back in work today; that was why he was up, that was why he was making such a noise downstairs. Nikki always held the belief that he hated going to work when she had no school and could lie in. True, she should be revising. A-levels weren’t that far away, and then perhaps university, and then … what? What followed the life she knew? A life she had no inkling of, that’s all she could bank on. In the past few years she had dreamed of becoming: a vet; a nurse; an architect; a musician; a music shop owner; a traveller (during one of her darker moments, when responsibility seemed too smothering and the romanticized freedom of the road lured her); a checkout girl (similar feelings, but less rebellious); and a solicitor. At present, her heart and dreams lay in The Rabids. Her mum and dad knew and honored this, although she could see the desperation in their eyes whenever the subject came up. They often tried to talk to her about realistic chances, luck, talent, drugs and money. They’d both lived their lives working at normal, mundane jobs. Neither of them had ever seen the band play.

  It would be unfair not to humor her dreams, and they knew it, and she knew they knew. Her dad, after all, often expressed a desire to make a living from his antiquarian book dealings. Musty old things smelling up the dining room and the study, that’s all Nikki thought of them, but he seemed to love their feel and texture and stench.

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  Occasionally he’d buy something and sell it on for a good profit, but the money usually went to pay for a new freezer, or a holiday, or to negate the upward-spiralling balance on a credit card. He had as much chance of succeeding there as she had of becoming the next Tori Amos. But of course, she’d never say that to her dad. She wouldn’t be that unfair. That was her mum’s job.

  She’d see Jazz today, talk about The Rabids, give h
im a kiss, hand him his present and see his face drop when he realised it wasn’t a bottle of scrumpy. She liked a drink, but Jazz often went one further until drink liked him. Sometimes that was just a bit too much. He thought it was cool, but it made her cold.

  Nikki pulled on some jeans and a shirt and padded downstairs barefoot. She heard her mum humming in the shower as she passed the bathroom and realized with a brief pang of excitement that she would be alone in the house today. Maybe she’d tell Jazz, maybe she wouldn’t. Perhaps-even better-she’d tell him, but not invite him over. She thought about last night again, the dark reaching in through the window to goosebump her skin, the coolness between her legs where the brisk air touched … dark thoughts all, alien and daring, exciting and frightening.

  “Hi Dad.”

  He spun around, dropping a slice of toast. It landed buttered side down. He stared at her for a few seconds, mouth wide, eyes as well.

  “Dad?”

  “Hi hon,” he said, expression hardly changing. “Sorry. Startled me.”

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  “You okay, Dad? Look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “I’m, well, I suppose-“

  “HAA!” Nikki star-jumped, shouting as loud as she could, choking on a laugh even before her feet met the kitchen floor again. Her dad dropped the butter knife-it skittered greasily across the tiles-and stepped back two paces, bumping against the sink. His eyes went even wider. His hands jerked up into a warding-off gesture.

  Oh Jesus, Nikki thought, he’s having a heart attack.

  One of his hands looked black.

  “Dad!”

  “Nikki, don’t bloody do that first thing in the morning.” He shook his head and bent down to pick up the knife and toast, hiding his startled expression.

  “Sorry, Dad,” she said quietly.

  “In fact, don’t do it ever.”

  “Sorry.” Quieter. She felt like a little girl, being told off like this and simply accepting it. But her Dad’s face had really scared her then. Sometimes, she thought about losing him.

  He looked up at her again and tried a smile through the icy glare. It looked like a face trapped under ice. “You’ll give your old man a coronary.”

  “Don’t say that!” she scolded. “And what’s that on your hand?”

  He cringed. His hand looked like a dead spider, fingers clawed, palm black and swollen. “Accident with the pool cue last night.”

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  “The pool cue and somebody’s head, more likely!” she said, giggling even as her dad turned around to the worktop to make fresh toast.

  “Went to swing it around my head when I beat Brady. Caught the end on the table and it jarred my hand. That’s all.”

  “Silly sod,” Nikki said.

  “Watch it you!”

  “Two slices of toast please Jeeves, and make it snappy.”

  Nikki sat on a barstool at the breakfast bar, sighed, ran her hands through her hair, trying to pull out the knots but succeeding only in tangling it more. She looked through the pile of papers and magazines and found the local free rag, four pages of news and twenty of adverts for treesurgeons, honey sellers and garden shed manufacturers. It was usually full of junk and her dad used it to light the Rayburn, but this week’s front page caught her attention.

  “When did this come?” she asked.

  Her dad placed a plate in front of her with two thick, black slices of toasted brown bread. Her favorite. “It was through the door when I got up. Some poor kid must have been delivering them at six this morning.”

  “It’s got those footprints on the front.” Nikki buttered her toast and scanned the story. There were various claims as to what could have caused the prints: a deer; a badger; a wounded buzzard unable to fly. Most column space was taken up by the Devil.

  “Oh shit,” she said. “Better bin this. Mum won’t be too happy with it.”

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  “Don’t swear. Happy with what?”

  And of course, her mum was standing behind her. Nikki crouched low over the paper, pursed her lips, wished that sometimes she could think before speaking. “Morning Mum.”

  “Hi honey. All ready for your long hard day of doing nothing while your father and I slave for the good of society to earn a crust to keep you in hairspray and nail polish and all manner of leather clothing?”

  “You’re my parents. It’s your job.” Nikki smiled and took a bite of toast.

  “And what wouldn’t I like?” Her mum leaned over and pulled the paper from under Nikki’s arms.

  Now she’d be pissed, Nikki knew, as much at me for saying that as at the article itself. She glanced at her Dad but he had already given up, turned to the sink, run the water and waited for the explosion. It always went like this. Good banter, a bit of fun, a bit of piss-taking-she was old enough now, her mum treated her as an adult even if her dad did still sometimes ruffle her hair and object to her short skirts-and then religion interrupted and wham, bam, fireworks.

  Religion. And she’d always thought it was sex that was supposed to come between a mother and her daughter.

  “Deer … badger … and the Devil.” Her mother read the options out quietly. She put the paper down. “Well, the footprints have gone now. Let’s just pretend they were never there.”

  And incredibly, amazingly, that was it.

  Nikki’s parents left at around eight thirty,

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  offering her a lift to Jazz’s but she said he wouldn’t even be up yet, and that he’d probably come around to pick her up on his motorbike. Wear your helmet, her dad advised, frowning slightly. Be careful, her mum said, covering all manner of possibilities in one phrase. She smiled at them both and waved them away. Then she smiled for herself because she loved them. All the way down the drive her parents faced forward, and if they were talking to each other they did so without turning their heads.

  Nikki spent an hour wandering from room to room, browsing books-new ones, not her dad’s smelly old things-listening to some Rob Zombie at earthquake-inducing volume. Then she showered, dressed and had a cup of coffee. And all the while she was looking from the windows at the surrounding landscape-trees on two sides, the Wilkinson’s house on a third, the lane to the main road on the fourth. Watching for someone.

  No, not someone, Brand. Watching for Brand. Because she was certain that he was still out there.

  She had heard his voice in her dreams.

  Sweet, he had purred as she hovered on the edges of sleep. Fine.

  Honey …

  Jazz’s arrival just after eleven o’clock was announced by the whooping rattle of his old motorbike. It was a 50cc machine, an asthmatic mongrel Nikki’s dad usually commented, but for Jazz it was a sleek mean road hugger. And

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  although he looked vaguely ridiculous pulling wheelies or burning down skid-marks on such a small bike, he seemed so proud that Nikki could never find it in her heart to take the piss.

  Today, as she watched him perform a clumsy half-moon stop on the wet driveway, she felt a surprising tug at her heart. She was actually pleased to see him. He pulled off his helmet and leaned over to kiss her without dismounting. She kissed him back, closed her eyes, losing herself for a moment and enjoying every second of it. She held his head and wrapped her fingers in his long hair. For a few brief moments she was kissing someone else.

  “Missed you,” he said.

  “Me too.” She hugged him and pressed her chin into his shoulder, looking past him at the woods. The constant shadows sat there, watching. She wondered what moved within them and she suddenly felt very sexy. For a few seconds she considered inviting Jazz inside, taking him upstairs … but she knew that she’d close her eyes as he kissed and caressed her, be with someone else. And in a strange way, after the last two nights, it would feel as if she was betraying someone else. The shadows beneath the trees would dislike her betrayal. She did not know what they could do about it, and she did not want to find out. The snow had melted away, there was no way of tellin
g what had been wandering their garden late last night, but she could smell something strange. Unknown perfumes in the still air.

  “We meeting up with the gang today?”

  Jazz nodded. He looked to the house and back.

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  Nikki knew what he was thinking, he had that frantic sparkle in his eyes. “Yeah, in a couple of hours, old man Warrington’s said we can use The Hall again. Jesse and Mandy have written a new song.” He shrugged. “It’s alright, I suppose.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “Don’t know.” He was still sitting astride his bike, legs wider than necessary as if it was a Harley rather than a hardly. “They called it The Origin of Storms, but it’s all hot air to me.” He grinned.

  “Ha ha, Sid Little.”

  “Invite me in, I’ll show you I’m not little.” That look again, a sort of temporary madness, eyes so wide open that Nikki was amazed he wasn’t drooling from the corner of his mouth as well. She glanced down at his combat trousers. He already had a hard-on, probably had one all morning thinking about seeing her again. But right now she wanted to get away, leave the house and the woods, go into the village.

  She glanced over at the trees, suddenly certain that she was being watched. Surely he can’t still be here, she thought. He isn’t really watching me undress at night, is he? He can’t honestly have hung around so long without someone else seeing him?

  “Let’s just go and see the guys,” she said, climbing on behind Jazz and wrapping her arms around his waist. She nuzzled his ear but kept her hands high. “Maybe later,” she whispered.

  He handed her the spare helmet and revved up, spitting a skid of gravel behind them as he pulled off along the driveway. With two on board

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