Free Easy Meat by John Harvey Page A

settee; his brother was shagging Sara Johnson yet again.
    On another occasion, Nicky would have stayed there and watched, but now there were more pressing things. In the bath-room he locked the door before switching on the light.
    Jesus Christ!
    He might have thought that black wouldn’t have shown the stains so clearly, but there was no denying them, thick patches that seemed to have been thrown across his shirt and T-shirt as if he had ridden a mountain bike fast through mud. More across the top of his jeans. And the blood was not only smeared across his skin, it was sticking to his hair. Nicky stripped to his underpants and socks; took off the socks. He thought about rinsing the shirt out in the sink, letting the jeans, perhaps, soak in the bath, but realized there was too little time and anyway, it would never work. He fetched a bin liner from the kitchen and bundled the clothes inside. First thing in the morning, he would get them good and lost. Burn them, that was the thing.
    Oh, shit! Footsteps on the stairs. The door handle turned but didn’t give.
    “Hang on a minute,” Nicky said.
    “Nicky?” Shane’s voice. “That you?”
    “Yeh, I shan’t be long.”
    “What the fuck you doin’ in there?”
    “What d’you think?”
    Nicky waited until his brother had walked away before returning to the sink. At least the water was still hot. He found an old scrubbing brush beside the bath and lathered it with soap. He would have to wash his face, clean between his fingers, beneath his nails, shampoo his hair. As he looked into the reddening water, he saw the woman’s gray head breaking below him, felt the impact of the blows reverberating back along his arms. Who’d have thought the old girl had as much blood in her as this?

    Why didn’t he run? Take whatever money was in the house, what he had himself and run. A bus to Manchester, Glasgow, London, anywhere. He could lose himself in London, knew kids who had. Kids who came back with stories of money and crack, of picking up punters on Victoria Station or at Funland in Leicester Square. Doing the kind of stuff Martin Hodgson would have been out doing last night. At the back of his throat, Nicky felt himself beginning to retch. The sensible thing was to stay here. Bugger off and they’ll take that as telling them, fair and square, sticking two and two in their hands and saying, right, what’s that? No, the thing to do was stay cool, get rid of the clothes, go to school.
    Just as his mum was getting up, Nicky fell fast off, sucking at his thumb.
    Norma was down in the kitchen when the cars arrived, two of them, Naylor and Divine, hurrying round to the back to cut off any possible escape. If she heard them, taking the carton of milk from the fridge, she gave no sign. Sitting down here with a cigarette, quiet, a fag and a cup of tea was the best part of the day.
    First up the path, Resnick stood aside, allowing Millington to ring the bell and knock. The sergeant paused, then rang the bell again.
    “Bloody hell! Who’s this?” But Norma, padding to the front door in her slippers, knew whoever it was, the news would not be good. Seeing the two men standing there, Resnick, whom she recognized, Norma felt a sudden pain fire, sharp, across her chest.
    “Your Nicky,” Millington said. “Is he in?”
    “Of course he’s bloody in.” But she was not looking at Millington, but at Resnick, trying to read the expression in his eyes.
    “ You can see where it’s heading, Norma. Clear as I can myself .” Resnick’s words, the last time he had been to her house.
    “What d’you want him for?” Norma asked.
    “One or two questions,” Millington told her, “about what he was up to last night.”
    “Last night he was here,” Norma said, “along of me, all evening.” It was a response as automatic as drawing breath.
    “I think we’d best ask him that,” Millington said.
    Norma stood her ground, not knowing what to do.
    Resnick shifted half a pace towards the