Read Online Something Hidden by Kerry Wilkinson - Free Book Online
Authors: Kerry Wilkinson
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expensive round here.’
Well, it was better than pissing in a pot.
Andrew dug into his wallet and plucked out a crumpled ten-pound note, holding it up into the light.
The tallest lad looked on disdainfully. ‘We’re not buying bloody Carling.’
‘All right, ten quid now, ten quid when you find me the right bloke.’
The teenager took a long drag on his cigarette, before sending the plume spiralling into the air as he used the tip of his trainer to nudge the lad sitting in front of him.
‘Deal. Bumfluff here will do the honours.’
Bumfluff scrambled to his feet, scowling at Andrew and then at the lad who’d kicked him. There was no doubting where the nickname had come from – his chin was peppered with wispy
light strands of barely there nothingness. There was scarcely enough hair to make a blanket for a bee. He adjusted his baseball cap, scragged the money from Andrew’s hand and then slouched
his way around the roundabout without a word, scuffing his feet along the crisped grass.
Andrew followed him towards the lengthening shadows. Beyond the hedge that looped around the play park was a three-storey cream-brick glorified outhouse that could probably be improved by losing
a fight with a bulldozer. The walls were more dirt than rock, with strings of graffiti tags running along the side, plus a spray-painted allegation that someone named Sonia liked ‘it’
in a place that most people wouldn’t.
Bumfluff kicked his way through a supposedly secure door, not bothering with the buzzers, and then waited at the bottom of a military-grey concrete slab of stairs. The whiff of cannabis hung in
the air, just about masking the smell of urine. He pointed towards the next floor. ‘Up there.’
‘
Where
up there?’ Andrew replied.
‘God’s sake . . .’
The soles of Bumfluff’s feet couldn’t have lifted more than a millimetre or two from the stairs as he skidded his way up, one step at a time, moaning under his breath. After four
flights punctuated by crying babies and too-loud televisions, he stopped in front of flat eleven and held his hand out expectantly.
‘That one.’
Andrew knocked on the door and waited, ignoring the accusatory stare. After another thump, the door swung inwards, catching on the chain and revealing an eye and half a cheek. A gnarled voice
growled from inside: ‘Who are you?’
‘Are you Joe?’
‘Who’s asking?’
Without turning away from the door Andrew pushed a ten-pound note in Bumfluff’s direction and offered his friendliest smile. ‘I’m Andrew Hunter and I was hoping I could talk to
you about Luke Methodist.’
The man started to close the door but Andrew was quicker, shuffling the toe of his boot into the gap and standing firm. ‘It’s not what you think – I’m here on behalf of
Luke’s daughter.’
The pressure from the door on Andrew’s foot abated as the eye continued to stare at him. ‘Luke’s daughter?’
Andrew glanced sideways to where Bumfluff was disappearing down the stairs, before he turned back to the man and removed his foot from the door. ‘Can we have this conversation in there or
out here, rather than through a door?’
There was a pause and then the door shunted forward before the chain clicked off and it swung inwards.
‘Are you Joe?’ Andrew asked again. Better to check.
The man nodded, turning and pointing to the flat beyond. His dressing gown hung to his knees, revealing a pair of stick-thin pigeon legs. He led Andrew into what could loosely be described as a
kitchen. The cooker didn’t appear to have been used in years, with a dried pool of something brown sitting between the rings on top and a grimy haze of filth covering the glass of the oven.
The microwave fared little better, with something green having dribbled along the front panel at some point before setting into a spattered mask.
Joe sat at the table, which was covered in coffee-mug rings and had a saucer overflowing with ash sitting in the centre. He
Well, it was better than pissing in a pot.
Andrew dug into his wallet and plucked out a crumpled ten-pound note, holding it up into the light.
The tallest lad looked on disdainfully. ‘We’re not buying bloody Carling.’
‘All right, ten quid now, ten quid when you find me the right bloke.’
The teenager took a long drag on his cigarette, before sending the plume spiralling into the air as he used the tip of his trainer to nudge the lad sitting in front of him.
‘Deal. Bumfluff here will do the honours.’
Bumfluff scrambled to his feet, scowling at Andrew and then at the lad who’d kicked him. There was no doubting where the nickname had come from – his chin was peppered with wispy
light strands of barely there nothingness. There was scarcely enough hair to make a blanket for a bee. He adjusted his baseball cap, scragged the money from Andrew’s hand and then slouched
his way around the roundabout without a word, scuffing his feet along the crisped grass.
Andrew followed him towards the lengthening shadows. Beyond the hedge that looped around the play park was a three-storey cream-brick glorified outhouse that could probably be improved by losing
a fight with a bulldozer. The walls were more dirt than rock, with strings of graffiti tags running along the side, plus a spray-painted allegation that someone named Sonia liked ‘it’
in a place that most people wouldn’t.
Bumfluff kicked his way through a supposedly secure door, not bothering with the buzzers, and then waited at the bottom of a military-grey concrete slab of stairs. The whiff of cannabis hung in
the air, just about masking the smell of urine. He pointed towards the next floor. ‘Up there.’
‘
Where
up there?’ Andrew replied.
‘God’s sake . . .’
The soles of Bumfluff’s feet couldn’t have lifted more than a millimetre or two from the stairs as he skidded his way up, one step at a time, moaning under his breath. After four
flights punctuated by crying babies and too-loud televisions, he stopped in front of flat eleven and held his hand out expectantly.
‘That one.’
Andrew knocked on the door and waited, ignoring the accusatory stare. After another thump, the door swung inwards, catching on the chain and revealing an eye and half a cheek. A gnarled voice
growled from inside: ‘Who are you?’
‘Are you Joe?’
‘Who’s asking?’
Without turning away from the door Andrew pushed a ten-pound note in Bumfluff’s direction and offered his friendliest smile. ‘I’m Andrew Hunter and I was hoping I could talk to
you about Luke Methodist.’
The man started to close the door but Andrew was quicker, shuffling the toe of his boot into the gap and standing firm. ‘It’s not what you think – I’m here on behalf of
Luke’s daughter.’
The pressure from the door on Andrew’s foot abated as the eye continued to stare at him. ‘Luke’s daughter?’
Andrew glanced sideways to where Bumfluff was disappearing down the stairs, before he turned back to the man and removed his foot from the door. ‘Can we have this conversation in there or
out here, rather than through a door?’
There was a pause and then the door shunted forward before the chain clicked off and it swung inwards.
‘Are you Joe?’ Andrew asked again. Better to check.
The man nodded, turning and pointing to the flat beyond. His dressing gown hung to his knees, revealing a pair of stick-thin pigeon legs. He led Andrew into what could loosely be described as a
kitchen. The cooker didn’t appear to have been used in years, with a dried pool of something brown sitting between the rings on top and a grimy haze of filth covering the glass of the oven.
The microwave fared little better, with something green having dribbled along the front panel at some point before setting into a spattered mask.
Joe sat at the table, which was covered in coffee-mug rings and had a saucer overflowing with ash sitting in the centre. He
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