night streets of this ancient part of London. He moved as fast as he could along Marshalsea Road, only looking up occasionally to check for any possible threats. The money he’d earned from a hard day’s begging in London’s West End was carefully hidden in the crotch of his underpants; the last place anyone would put their hands – or so he hoped, although he knew other beggars desperate for cash would not hesitate to search everywhere. The only other serious risk was gangs of drunks or groups of feral youths who might decide to kick him to death purely for entertainment, but it was late and the night was bitterly cold – like only January can be – so the streets were practically deserted.
As he scuttled towards his current home – an abandoned garage at the back of a low-rise residential block – he was oblivious to the faded detritus of Christmas hanging from some of the lampposts, and the torn, dirty streamers and decorations that adorned the windows and doors of the flats he passed, fairy lights forlornly trying to cling to a happier, less bleak time. He turned into Mint Street and was soon at the garage that served as home. He could have stayed in the West End, but that would have meant sleeping on a bed of cardboard in a shop doorway till he was kicked awake by frustrated employees or owners. He moved some corrugated metal sheets aside and slipped into the garage, pulling them back into place behind him as he took a small torch from his pocket and surveyed the interior, relieved to see his few possessions were still where he’d left them. With a sense of urgency, he turned on both his camping lantern and a battery-powered outdoor heater. Its effectiveness was minimal, but it took the bitterness from the air and provided a comforting, almost homely glow. He rubbed his hands and began to search the garage for food he’d been given by donors who wanted to help but didn’t want to give him cash. On a night like this he was grateful for the food and was soon devouring a packet of biscuits as if it was his last meal.
After he’d retrieved the cash bag from its hiding place he settled down to count his daily earnings on the old broken car seat that served as his sofa, the foam protruding from gaping wounds in the vinyl cover. He pushed another biscuit into his mouth and tipped the money next to him on the seat, pushing the coins around with the tips of his fingers, satisfied at a glance that he had enough to take to his dealer tomorrow to replenish the supply he was about to use. He wiped the mix of saliva and crumbs from his lips, gathered the coins back into the bag and carried it to the wall at the back of the garage. His fingers traced the outline of a loose brick – his secret brick – and began working away at the edges until they gained sufficient purchase to pull it free and lower it to the ground.
Listening hard, he slid his hand into the hole and searched inside the cavity until his fingers touched the plastic bag he’d hidden there. He lifted it out and then replaced the brick before heading back to the sofa and making himself comfortable. As delicately as if he were handling surgical instruments, he removed the contents and placed them in a neat line in front of him: a tiny clip-seal plastic bag containing three small waxy rocks of crack, a glass pipe to smoke them with and a lighter to heat them.
Carefully he set one of the rocks on the end of the homemade pipe, placing the other end between his lips and raising the lighter towards the translucent pebble – not rushing, enjoying the moment before his world changed, for a few hours at least, from rank misery to ecstasy. But as he drew his thumb firmly over the flint of the cheap lighter to produce a spark, his head snapped around. He was sure he’d heard a noise outside. Not the normal wild noises of the night he’d grown used to hearing – the screech of a catfight or the scavenging of a fox – but something different. The clumsy noise that only another human would make.
For almost twenty seconds he sat frozen in place, his head cocked so that his ear pointed towards the entrance. He was beginning to doubt he’d heard anything, until suddenly, terrifyingly, the sound came again: unwary feet tripping over something on the ground. Another homeless person? Another drug addict? Someone who’d followed him or who’d been watching the garage, waiting for his return? Someone planning to lay claim to all his prized possessions – maybe even the garage itself? In a panic he scrambled for the six-inch kitchen knife he kept under the sofa, squeezing its thick rubber handle hard – the feel of it in his palm calming him and making him feel stronger and less vulnerable. He reminded himself he’d been surviving on the streets since he was sixteen and had yet to be seriously turned over or battered. If someone was coming for him, he’d give them what they deserved.
He moved silently towards the entrance of the garage, hoping to startle his would-be attacker by suddenly calling out: ‘I don’t know what the fuck you want, but I’ve got a serious fucking blade. You fuck with me, I’ll fucking cut you up, man.’
His bold words made him feel more confident and stronger, but it was a fragile power, fading by the second as his words met with silence. Again he started to question whether he’d imagined the noise, or whether it might have been a stray dog looking for an easy meal. But until he could be sure there was nothing out there, he knew he wouldn’t be able to relax and enjoy the blissful escape he had planned.
Forced on by the need to know, he began to pull back the makeshift front door, continually cursing under his breath until he was able to look out into the night, the darkness illuminated slightly by the glow of the city’s light. It had begun to rain; freezing pellets of sleet lashed his face, stinging his skin and making it hard to see as he peered through squinted eyes. Blinking rapidly, he wiped the water from his face with a sweep of his hand and looked up to the starless sky, opening his mouth to catch a few drops on his tongue – like he used to do when he was a child.
A smile began to spread across his lips until suddenly it was smashed away as something hit him hard across the back of the head – the blow powerful enough to crack his skull and knock him semi-conscious to the ground, but not enough to kill him. His befuddled mind was struggling to work out what could have happened when he became aware that he was moving; someone was dragging him backwards across the ground into the garage. There were no sounds of exertion; whoever it was seemed able to move him with ease. He felt his lower legs being dropped to the floor and moments later he heard the scrape of the board being replaced across the entrance, the noise of the rain outside fading to a quiet hiss.
After a few seconds he’d recovered enough to slightly open his eyes and was immediately aware that someone was circling him, first one way and then the other, like a tiger moving in on his prey. He tried to move but instantly felt a kick to his stomach that made him double up with pain. As he lay clutching his belly and trying not to vomit, his assailant crouched by his side and a gloved hand reached out to seize a handful of hair in a vice-like grip. His head was twisted around until he was looking into his attacker’s face, but the features were hidden in the depths of his hoodie so all Dalton could see were shadows, as if his torturer had no face at all. Even so, there seemed something familiar about the figure crouched next to him, although in his swirling confusion he couldn’t make a connection between this nightmare and anything that had existed in the real world.
After an age of silence, Dalton managed to draw sufficient breath to mumble, ‘Who are you? Want do you want?’
The reply came from deep within the darkness where a face should have been as the attacker, by some sleight of hand, produced a vicious-looking knife – long and thick, with a serrated edge like the lower jaw of a piranha. He held the blade close to Dalton’s face. ‘I want them all to know – I want them all to know who did this.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Dalton whimpered – his eyes fixed on the knife. ‘Did what?’
The attacker’s hand moved fast, the knife slicing deep into Dalton’s neck, opening a gaping wound through which the air in his lungs rushed out, mixing with the pooling blood. But the man who would soon kill him had been careful not to sever the carotid artery. He didn’t want him to die. Not yet. For now, he wanted silence. He wanted Dalton to be alive so he could see the terror and horror in his eyes before he allowed him the blissful release of death.
‘It’s time,’ the voice from the shadow told him. ‘Time to show them all.’
Detective