January (3 page)

Kitkat pulled the straps on his rucksack tighter, hoisting the bag higher on his shoulders. He could feel the money at the bottom. Was it really his? Could things be that easy?

He edged along the front of the restaurant, sitting on a fixed bench at the end and removing his phone from his pocket. His fingers were shivering but he unlocked the screen to see that nobody
had bothered to message him other than Chris earlier. He peered back through the window of the restaurant but nobody was paying him any attention.

It was a new year but he was stuck with the same life – and was utterly invisible to all around him.

With little else to do, Kitkat stood and headed back towards the main road. He’d get to the Hare and Hound a little before one but had no doubt Chris would already be there, most likely
feeding a stream of pound coins into the fruit machine, already half-cut.

Kitkat crossed the road, thrusting his hands deeper into his pockets as he turned into a headwind.

New year, same old Manchester weather.

As he went over the bridge spanning the canal, Kitkat upped his pace, wanting to get out of the maelstrom. He was about to cross another road when there was a squeal of tyres. Kitkat turned too
late as metal doors clanged open. Before he could say anything, something walloped into the side of his head, a glancing blow but enough to send him stumbling. He was on his knees, blinking away
the stars as something was stuffed into his mouth. Before he could think of fighting back, his wrists were clamped together, stiff plastic ties cutting into his skin. Everything was over in an
instant as something was looped over his head, leaving him in darkness as he was bundled sideways into what he assumed was a van. There was another screech of wheels and then he found himself being
flung backwards, landing painfully with only the rucksack cushioning his fall.

Kitkat wanted to yell but his mouth was full of a sock or something similar. He was no fighter but had grown up in an area in which everyone had to know how to look after themselves. In this
instance, he’d not even been given a chance.

He knew he had to find a way to remain calm, concentrating on what he could feel and hear. His wrists were in agony from what he assumed were cable ties digging into his flesh, but the hood over
his head hadn’t been fastened and he could at least breathe. He took a deep gasp, holding the air at the top of his throat and focusing. There was a mumbling of voices – male voices
– but nothing distinctive enough for him to make out either precise words, or the tone of his kidnappers. His legs were free but there wasn’t much he’d be able to do with his eyes
covered. If he lashed out, the best that could happen was that he’d catch someone who would then beat the crap out of him.

The floor of the vehicle bobbed up and down through Manchester’s potholes, the metal cold through his clothes. Kitkat took another breath, fighting the instinct to panic. If these people
really
wanted to hurt him, they’d already be doing so given that he was largely defenceless. The fact they’d not done that yet meant they had plans for him. He was being taken .
. . somewhere. He wasn’t naive – it surely had something to do with the money he’d stumbled across. Was one of his assailants the actual owner? If so, why hadn’t they simply
asked
him about the money?

A chill flittered along Kitkat’s spine as another thought occurred to him. What if Chris had told Clarkey about the windfall? Chris was immature but harmless enough on his own; Clarkey was
a full-on idiot. He had fingers in all sorts of pies and knew many types of dangerous people. Perhaps he owed the wrong person and, instead of paying off his own debt, he’d passed on the fact
that Kitkat had come into money. That prospect was altogether more worrying.

Whoever was driving ground their way through the gears, crunching to a halt and then accelerating again. Kitkat bumped up and down. He could sense others nearby but nobody said anything to him.
For now, he’d have to bide his time, waiting for an opportunity which, if it came, would allow him to run. He might not be a fighter, but he was sure as hell a runner.

He had no idea how long passed but Kitkat felt every thump from the uneven road. In failing to fill the endless sea of potholes, Manchester City Council was not only messing up people’s
cars, it was endangering kidnap victims dumped on the bottom of vans.

Kitkat grunted as his head thwacked into the metal for the fifth or sixth time before, mercifully, the engine died. He heard metal doors sliding open and was then hauled to his feet. A
man’s voice muttered ‘walk’ as Kitkat felt hands under his armpits, plonking him onto hard ground. He did as he was told, allowing the hands to guide him into what sounded like a
tight corridor. The footsteps of his abductors echoed noisily around the enclosed space until he was shoved into a chair. It felt like it was made of metal, legs squeaking along a tiled floor, the
cold pressing into his back again.

Silence.

Kitkat heard nothing, but the hood was suddenly gone, and then the material was removed from his mouth. He spluttered and squinted, trying to regain his senses. Air poured into his lungs, the
vague tang of fried food now unconcealed. Whatever it was smelled an awful lot better than the soft object that had been tickling his tongue. He hoped it hadn’t been a sock.
Really
hoped it wasn’t a sock.

Slowly the swarm of stars and colours began to clear. He was in a kitchen – a big kitchen, the sort found only in a restaurant or hotel. The floor was a tiled pattern of grey and black
with matching worktops along both sides. Neat lines of sparkling pans hung on one side and he could see a wide sink on the other, brimming with soapy water.

In front was the shape of a man. He had short fair hair and was wearing a tightly cut suit. Kitkat’s eyes opened wider, taking in the size of the man. He was big: powerful shoulders and
arms bulging against the material.

‘D’you know who I am, kid?’

Kitkat continued blinking, trying to unclutter his mind. Of course he knew the man. Everyone on the estate did.

‘Carter.’

The man nodded but showed no emotion. He had been the right-hand man to Harry Irwell, the one-time guardian of their area. The person who owned pubs, clubs and who knew what else. He also had a
host of other
industries
on the side. It was the secret that wasn’t a secret, not where Kitkat lived in any case. After Irwell’s demise, Carter had stepped up. He was their
guardian now.

‘Where’s my money?’

Kitkat tried to point a thumb towards the rucksack on his back, forgetting his hands were bound. ‘In the bag,’ he mumbled.

Before he could add anything else, someone behind him stepped forward. He couldn’t see what was going on but felt two snips before the rucksack fell to the floor. There was a shuffling but
he didn’t try to turn, instead focusing back on Carter, trying to read features that were unreadable.

How much trouble was he in? Everyone on the estate heard rumours – so and so had borrowed money that he couldn’t repay, now he couldn’t walk. The betting shop on the corner
refused to pay up and had burned down days later. What was to be his fate? Carter was the last person whose money he’d have wanted to end up with by accident.

Kitkat sputtered, ‘I didn’t know’, but nobody replied. Slowly, the pieces began to slide together in his mind. Someone was running a side business at the chicken place, most
likely selling drugs or legal highs alongside cholesterol-soaked meat. It was no wonder Chris said he went there ‘all the time’. Of course he bloody did – he always had a bag of
weed on the go. There was no way Carter would let an industry like that flourish without him getting his cut. Somehow, Kitkat had ended up with the money instead of the intended recipient.

‘Four and a half.’ The male voice behind Kitkat sent tendrils of ice spiralling through him.

Carter’s eyes flickered towards the sound. ‘You sure?’

‘Yes, boss.’

The suited man’s gaze focused back on Kitkat. ‘Where’s the rest?’

‘What rest? That’s all there was.’

Kitkat was panicking, twisting in the seat to see the pile of money on the floor. His bag was turned inside out, no chance of the bundles being hidden. He opened his mouth to protest but then it
dawned on him. Chris had grabbed four bundles the previous evening and Kitkat hadn’t watched him put them all back in the bag. He’d not counted the money before going to bed. The
thieving sod must’ve pocketed five hundred quid.

Shite.

He turned back, catching himself in Carter’s steely glare.

‘Where’s the rest?’ Carter demanded.

‘I swear, that’s all there was.’

Kitkat tried to sound as genuine as he could but he was never going to be believed. In a flash of movement, the unseen people behind had yanked him out of the chair. This time he tried to kick
but he was outnumbered and disorientated. Before he knew what was going on, his legs had been bound together and he was lying on the hard tiles, head spinning. He squeezed his palms together,
attempting to give his wrists more room, but the ties continued to slice into his skin. He tried to scramble into a sitting position but a boot thundered into his knee and then he heard the
strangled screech of a pulley. He realised what was going on a moment before it happened.

Within seconds, he was hanging upside down, legs attached to a railing on the ceiling, head dangling over the teeming sink. Without another word, there was a flicker of movement and
Kitkat’s head collided with the bottom of the metal sink. He was engulfed by soapy water that burst into his mouth and nostrils. He’d had no time, no warning, to take a breath. Now he
really was panicking, trying to lift his neck and get himself out of the water, thrashing his limbs in an attempt to return to the air. The bubbles seeped through to the back of his throat, making
him gasp and clamour.

Suddenly, Kitkat was clear of the water. He wheezed a heavy breath that was largely water, sending a spray of liquid from his mouth as he gasped desperately. He panted, the flecks of water
irritating the back of his throat and nose. It was a while before he opened his eyes, feeling the froth running from his face until he managed to settle on the stony face of Carter. There was a
thick cord in the man’s hand but he seemed to be taking no pleasure from what he was inflicting.

‘Where’s my money, you four-fingered freak?’

Chris’s name was on the tip of Kitkat’s tongue. He wanted to say it but what then? Carter and his men might kill his friend. If not, they’d definitely hurt him. Did Kitkat want
that on his conscience? Perhaps they’d believe him that there was only four and a half thousand in the bag.

‘That’s all there was!’

Kitkat managed to snatch a breath in the fraction of a second that he saw Carter’s grip loosen on the cord. He scrunched his eyes as tightly as he could, feeling the foamy water swirling
around his face. He tried to tell himself not to panic again, counting the seconds instead of flailing. If he could stand up to the punishment, perhaps that would impress a man like Carter?

It was almost a minute before Kitkat felt the pressure on his legs intensify and he was hauled clear of the water. He started to take a breath but the cord was released again and, before he had
a lungful of air, he was back in the sink, panicking and struggling. Water stung his eyes, filling his nose and mouth. Without meaning to, he gulped in the liquid, and then he really was
scrambling. His head rocked back and forth, sending the water spilling over the top of the sink as he bumped into the sides. He took a second mouthful, mind racing before it was over.

In a flash, he was out of the water again. He puffed deeply, trying to get the liquid out of his mouth, expecting to be dunked once more. This time it didn’t happen as he slowly regained
some composure. The only noise was the sound of drips falling from Kitkat’s head into the sink. His eyes were still closed but he could hear the swirl of water disappearing from beneath him.
When he finally risked a peek, he could see the scratched metal at the bottom of the nearly empty sink.

At some point – he wasn’t sure when – his hands had been cut free. His wrists were so sore from the slices that, even though they’d been separated, it still felt as if
they were bound together. Kitkat blinked and coughed, feeling the liquid scraping the back of his throat. Every breath was painful.

The spot in which Carter had been standing was now empty, the cord tying Kitkat’s feet looped over the bracket on the ceiling and tied to the corner of a metal shelf. As far as he could
see, he was alone.

He bobbed back and forth, still trying to get his breath properly as he angled himself to peer up at the rope that was holding him. As he wondered how he was going to release himself, Kitkat
realised a knife was resting next to the taps. Had it always been there, or had it been put there by whoever had cut his wrists free? Not caring either way, Kitkat stretched for the blade. It was
heavy, the type used to slice vegetables, and he wasn’t feeling particularly strong.

It took time, but with a series of grunts and resting periods, he hoisted himself up and slowly cut through the cord.

Eventually, the rope gave way, allowing Kitkat’s exhausted body to flop to the floor, where he landed in a puddle of water with a fleshy plop. He put his hands to his face, checking he was
all there before emitting another choke of water.

‘You can still use your hands, then?’

Kitkat didn’t have the energy to turn quickly but he slumped to the side, spotting Carter standing close to a chest freezer, hands in pockets. Kitkat’s throat was on fire:
‘Huh?’

‘Four fingers or not, your hands still work.’

‘I guess.’

Carter stepped forward as Kitkat reeled away, arm across his face, expecting a blow that never came. Instead, the suited man offered his hand and helped Kitkat to his feet.

His features were as impassive as ever. ‘I hear you’ve been asking around for work,’ Carter said.

‘Er . . . yeah.’

‘You know who I am?’

‘Yes.’