Behind him, Christopher clapped. “You’re fucked now, Rugby Boy!”
Sykes was silent now. And the two boys flanking him shrank back against the gates. Leo waited. And, as he waited, he realized something else. Not only was he not afraid of being hurt, but he wanted Sykes to hit him, because then Leo could strike back, could slam him into the gates and thump him till he bled.
But Sykes nodded, mumbling in the direction of his cohorts, and the three boys slunk away. Watching them go, Leo felt the electric thrill of violence begin to ebb, replaced by the dull ache of disappointment.
10th October
Twenty-two days . . .
8:34 a.m.—Scarlet
“So, what’ll you do?” Walt asks. He’s returned, following a six-day absence while waiting on a replacement float switch for the dishwasher and leaving a disgruntled Scarlet to wash everything by hand. She feels grateful, for once, that the café hasn’t been too busy.
“I haven’t a clue.”
They sit atop the kitchen counter, cradling cinnamon buns and coffee. Behind them the finial Scarlet hammered into being seems to glow, as if it’s still in the furnace, so Scarlet imagines she can feel its heat pressing against her back.
“I won’t sell the café, and certainly not to him.”
“You know . . .” Walt swallows the last of his cinnamon bun. “As well as being a dab hand with a wrench, I also moonlight as a hit man. I don’t mean to be immodest but, in certain circles, my expertise is quite renowned.”
Scarlet can’t help a smile. “Oh, yes?”
Walt nods. “You’ll have to take my word for it, though. My clientele aren’t the sort to offer references.”
“I imagine not.”
“As luck would have it,” he says, “I specialize in the assassination of corporate capitalist pigs.”
“That is convenient.” Scarlet sips her coffee. “So, do you only murder or will you maim too?”
Walt considers this. “A simple no-frills assassination will cost you five grand. I charge extra for torture and dismembering. Now, the deluxe package—that includes the gouging of eyeballs, removal of toenails, strangulation of the victim with his own intestinal tract—will set you back an even ten.”
“Do you take direct debit?”
“Cash only, I’m afraid,” Walt says. “As you might imagine, the Revenue and Customs tends to take a dim view of my line of work.”
Scarlet sets down her coffee cup. “They might take a dimmer view of your tax evasion.”
“True,” Walt concedes. “Can I trust you to be discreet?”
“Well, I do prefer my intestines on the inside, so yes, I think you can.” Scarlet inches closer, giving Walt a grateful nudge. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For letting me forget about it all,” Scarlet says—failing grandmothers, financial struggles, and combustible moths—“For a few minutes.”
8:11 p.m.—Liyana
Liyana stares at the ceiling, trying not to think about all the things making her miserable: imminent penury, her failure so far to procure employment. Instead she thinks of Kumiko, Mazmo, the Slade . . . which is no better. Liyana sighs, her eyes filling. She blinks the tears away. One rebels and rolls down her cheek.
Liyana sits up. It’s no use, she needs comfort. She contemplates her options. First, her girlfriend. But she’s already walking on thin ice with Kumiko and doesn’t want to crack it. Second, her aunt. A reflex thought, since when it comes to physical affection (of the platonic sort) Nya is, unless the circumstances are exceptional, about as cuddly as a shark. She tries, but she’s been built too brittle. Third, the fridge. But given the way Liyana’s feeling right now, she’ll gobble up everything before moving on to the cupboards. Which leaves option four: her mother. Unfortunately, Isisa Chiweshe hadn’t been a great source of comfort in life and nor is she in death. So Liyana reaches under her bed for the box. It contains twelve things, including a copy of The Water-Babies that Mummy used to read as a special treat when they weren’t trudging through Dickens. And her tarot cards.
Liyana shuffles the cards until her panic begins to subside. She selects four and sets them on the bed, their pictures bright against the white sheets. The Page of Wands: a boy standing straight and proud, holding a white feather. New perspectives, not afraid of challenges or risk. The Five of Pentacles: two girls huddled together in the snow, three birds watching protectively, the coins scattered at their feet. Despair, loss, hardship, poverty, survival. The Moon: an arched purple wolf howls at the sky. Prophetic dreams, illusions, the unconscious mind. The King of Wands sits