Free The Chosen Seed by Sarah Pinborough

face framed with silver hair stared down at him. Cass almost laughed in his terror. Mr Bright was looking down at them all, overseeing the game, as always.
    The man lying on the ceiling winked. As he did so, the baby, out of sight, began to cry.
    And the dead swarmed.

Chapter Nine
    I t was a strange farewell. After two months under his supervision, Cass still didn’t feel he knew Mac any better than he had on day one, and he figured maybe that was how he liked it. If Cass got nicked, all he could say about the big, bald man was that, despite the nickname, he wasn’t Scottish.
    They’d got up early, and Mac and a younger man Cass didn’t know had driven him to leafy Crouch Hill. Mac pulled the car over on the corner of a wide boulevard.
    ‘First left. Number forty-five. He’s expecting you.’ Mac got out with Cass and gave him a nod and a wink and an envelope with what looked like at least a couple of grand in cash wedged inside.
    ‘From Mr Mullins. To get you started.’
    Cass took it. He was in no position to be proud – the day for pride was long gone as far as Artie Mullins was concerned. He owed the man, and he owed him big. Between Mullins and Father Michael, Cass felt slightly overwhelmed. Both had helped him, and it was more than just giving him money, or a place to stay: more importantly, both believed in his innocence. The dichotomy between the two men’s natures wasn’t lost on him. He didn’t deserve such faith from either of them. Cass’d always felt he existed in the grey area, but recently he couldn’t help but think that the grey was getting darker, and whatever goodness he’donce had inside him was getting swallowed up until all the goodness in his life had gone and he was just left with vengeance. Perhaps that would change when he had Luke back. Perhaps that was why finding the boy had become so important to him. Luke was his last hope for redemption.
    Redemption is the key . His brother’s last words echoed in his head, and the meaning in them still rang true.
    He nodded goodbye to Mac and waited on the kerb until the car had disappeared before starting to walk, a small holdall of clothes over his good shoulder and carrying the battered suitcase that Father Michael had brought him in his right hand. He thought of the big house in Muswell Hill, not so far from here, that had been his home for so long, and the new place in St John’s Wood, and all the money that he’d accumulated in the bank. None of it mattered any more; he was reduced to what he was carrying – and within an hour he’d have a whole new identity too. Maybe he should have felt more like a phoenix, but he didn’t. He picked up his pace and headed for Number 45.
    In the movies, forgers worked out of tiny backroom offices. They were generally skinny, nervy types who looked like they’d been bullied in school. If this one was anything to go by, that stereotype was well out of date.
    ‘Before you ask,’ the man smiled as he led Cass into the large open-plan kitchen, ‘this isn’t my house.’ He hadn’t introduced himself and neither had Cass. Given the nature of the man’s business, current names were irrelevant.
    ‘It belongs to an overseas corporation, rented through a variety of holding companies.’ He gave a wide, friendly smile over his shoulder. ‘Should you find yourself in an unfortunate situation with the police, sending them here will do you no favours. They won’t find anything.’
    ‘I understand your concern,’ Cass said, ‘but if the policecatch me, then I don’t think giving them a forger – however good you are – would do me much good.’
    ‘No, you’re probably right.’ He poured two coffees from the filter jug on the side and slid over a jug of cream and a pot of sugar. ‘Help yourself.’
    Cass did, watching the man warily. He was older than Cass, mid- to late forties, but his face was chubbier, and smooth. He had the look of a man who had had an easy life; he could pass easily for