Free Vengeance Child by Simon Clark

wondering if it smelt like that when you lay buried in your coffin. Like his dad. Listening to the coffin lid creak under the weight of the soil. Archer wanted to vomit. The taste of soil filled his mouth, then it slid down the back of his tongue. All Jay was doing was staring. A stare as if he was reading words on Archer’s face.
    â€˜Let me go,’ Archer pleaded.
    â€˜First, I’ve got to show you something.’
    â€˜I don’t want to see it.’
    â€˜Archer.’
    â€˜Don’t say my name. Please, Jay, I haven’t hurt you. Don’t do anything bad to me, Jay!’ The eight-year-old was close to tears. A breeze stirred the leaves into a chuckle. As if the forest would take pleasure in witnessing whatever fate befell Archer. ‘Please, Jay. It isn’t fair . . .’
    â€˜Archer.’
    â€˜No, please don’t.’
    â€˜I’m going to take you to see your dad.’
    This shook Archer. ‘You can’t; he’s dead. I saw him open the door; then they shot him.’
    Jay murmured, ‘Keep next to me. Don’t stop walking.’
    Archer looked down at his feet – they were traitors. He hadn’t even realized he’d stood up, let alone started walking. Jay led him through the undergrowth.
    â€˜You can see yourself, can’t you, Archer?’ The voice could have been a whisper of cold air coming from a cave.
    Close to panic, Archer snapped, ‘I don’t know what you mean!’
    â€˜You can see yourself coming down the stairs at your house.’
    â€˜Course I can’t. You’re being stupid.’
    â€˜You can see yourself walking down the steps. You’re wearing a green T-shirt.’
    â€˜You’re making it up.’
    â€˜Your mother bought you that T-shirt earlier that morning.’
    â€˜You witch. You’re trying to scare me.’
    Jay continued in the monotone as they walked down a soil bank. ‘You’re on the stairs and you’re looking down at your father. He’s standing in the hallway. Someone’s banging on the front door.’
    â€˜Liar.’
    Archer ran down the banking. He’d had enough of this. What mattered now was to get back to the farm. Only the soft dirt under his feet became hard steps. When he reached the bottom he saw the bushes had gone. He couldn’t see Jay. There was no smell of dirt. Instead he could smell the bacon his father had fried.
    Archer blinked. Somehow – and he didn’t know how it had happened – he was standing in the hallway at the foot of a staircase. He was back in his old home again. He knew his mother was upstairs. Now it was that day again. The one when his father’s friends came to call after they’d discovered the money had vanished. His father had shiny black hair, brushed back from his face. His face was always tanned and he wore a thick gold chain round his neck. ‘My freedom ticket’ was how he described it as he fingered the heavy links. Always he looked pleased with himself. Even cocky.
    Except today. His face had gone ugly with fear. The knock on the door grew louder.
    â€˜Archer, come here, son,’ he said. ‘That’s it. Don’t be scared. There’s a good lad.’ He tried to smile but his lips curled oddly as if he might start crying. ‘Go to the door, Archer. Don’t open it. Whatever you do, don’t unlock it. Just shout through that you’re home with your mother but your dad’s out of town.’
    â€˜I want to get Mum the facecloth.’
    â€˜Later.’
    â€˜Her nose is bleeding.’
    â€˜Archer, you little runt, do as I tell you.’ Even as he spoke he rubbed his hand against his trouser leg to wipe away the red smear. ‘Tell them, I’ll be back tonight. I’ll phone them then.’ Then he said to himself, ‘Some chance. I’ll be long gone.’
    â€˜Dad—’
    â€˜Just fucking well do it.