Free A Reason to Kill by Jane A. Adams

been just cider. It had had a kick to it that cider didn’t usually have – at least from his limited knowledge of it – and Shaz Bates’s dad was known to have a well-stocked bar. It wouldn’t be the first time she had mixed it. And that brought another bit of the puzzle into focus for George. Who might have seen them? Shaz was one of Mark Dowling’s little gang, or at least she was on the fringes of it, her older brother being one of Dowling’s friends.
    â€˜She must have been the one what seen us,’ he said. ‘When we left everyone at the tin huts, she said she’d have to get off home. She must have seen.’
    Miserably, Paul nodded. Had they been sober, George figured, they might have thought it was odd that Shaz was leaving what was really her party so early. The Bates family had never been one to chase up the whereabouts of their numerous kids or to insist on early bed on school nights. And she’d been the one who’d said …
    â€˜She said I didn’t have the nerve,’ Paul said and George realized that this was the first time it had all made sense to him. What Shaz had
actually
said, George recalled, was that she reckoned Paul would piss himself, that he was a mammy’s boy, that he didn’t have what it took. George had asked what did that prove anyway; it just showed that Paul was a nice person, and everyone had jeered at that, laughed until Paul had been red in the face with shame.
    George recalled the brief argument they had after leaving the sheds, Paul walking with exaggerated care across the rough ground and announcing loudly to the world that he was capable of anything.
    â€˜She keeps cash in her kitchen drawer, everyone knows that, just like me nan does, and all we have to do is get in there and—’
    â€˜
Steal
it.’ George had reminded him. ‘It’s thieving, Paul, and she’s an old woman. You don’t steal from an old woman. She might
be
your nan.’
    â€˜She ain’t my nan. I don’t even know her.’ Paul fell over, lay on his back staring up at the night sky until George hauled him back on to his feet.
    â€˜OK, then, ok. I won’t take nothing. No money or nothing, just a little something or other to prove we done it.’
    â€˜We?’
    â€˜You coming with me?’
    â€˜Paul, I don’t want to. It’s stupid.’ George had only had a swig or two of the cider cocktail. Enough to get light headed and to seem to be fitting in, but he’d lost track of how much Paul had drunk. ‘It’s late,’ he said. ‘We should be getting home.’
    â€˜I’m not a kid,’ Paul had muttered angrily. ‘Not a bloody kid.’
    Now, sat together on Paul’s bed, the memory of that fateful night became all too clear. ‘It weren’t your fault,’ Paul said, his voice harsh with unshed tears. ‘You just went with me. I’d have gone anyway.’
    â€˜No. No you wouldn’t. You’d have fallen over in another ditch or forgot where you were going or summat. You wouldn’t have done it on your own. I wouldn’t have done it on my own neither.’
    The silence thumped down between them once again and George stared at the paused screen, a small part of him wanting to pick up the controllers and beat seven shades out of the monsters, as if there was nothing wrong.
    â€˜We could talk to Karen,’ he said finally. ‘She’d know what to do.’
    Paul shrugged and then winced. ‘Maybe.’ He bit his lip. ‘Mam wanted to call the police. She said she thought I’d been in a fight or something. Wanted to know if I was being bullied.’ He laughed harshly.
    â€˜I guess Mark Dowling would count as a bully,’ George said, and for a moment they both laughed.
    Paul wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. ‘I don’t know what to do,’ he confessed.
    â€˜We talk to Karen,’ George