No. Didn’t even have that any more.
The wolves had taken it all.
Everything except the half-bottle of Asda own-brand whisky in his coat pocket — which was about to get a serious spanking.
‘Wmmmmphaaaaargh!’ Malcolm’s eyes snapped open in the darkness, face wet, water running into his ears and soaking into his T-shirt.
A little girl loomed over him, features lit from below like she was about to tell a ghost story. Her voice was posh and clipped — polished marble and cut glass. ‘Here we go. Knew you were in there somewhere.’ She couldn’t have been more than ten or eleven, big blue eyes staring at him above her tartan facemask as she waggled an almost empty bottle of water in her gloved hand. ‘Wouldn’t do for you to miss the grand finale, would it?’ She was dressed down in a baseball cap and hoodie — both advertising rival crappy pop bands. Tracksuit bottoms and a pair of mud-smeared Nikes. She’d tucked her hair away out of sight, but the freckles visible above her mask and those pale-orange eyebrows meant she was a redhead in real life. Gloves and a facemask: like the pandemic had never ended.
‘Gah...’ Malcolm scrabbled back against the wall, levering himself up till he was sitting. Wiped the water from his face with his good hand. The whisky’s warmth leaching out of his bones, leaving that old, familiar, thirsty tremor behind. ‘You can’t just come in—’
‘Do shut up.’ She looked over her shoulder. ‘Are you recording?’
A large boy emerged from the gloom. About the size of a vending machine, broad-shouldered, big barrel chest, an iPhone clutched in his blue-nitrile-covered paw. Couldn’t see his mouth, because of the skull-print facemask, but the smile in his eyes was clear enough. He sounded even posher than she did: ‘Indubitably.’ One of those accents that boomed with privilege, private education, and a sheltered upbringing. ‘Worry not, my dear Allegra; Hugo has got it covered.’
The girl, Allegra, glowered at him. ‘Don’t use our names, you utter nimrod!’
‘Oh.’ Hugo’s shoulders rounded, eyes going all puppy dog. ‘But there’s no one else here, and this unfortunate gentleman will be dead soon, so—’
‘You’re recording this! Now our names are on the footage!’
‘Ah. Yes. I see.’ A nod. ‘Quite right. Mea culpa. Stupid Hugo.’ He fiddled with his phone. ‘OK, I’ve definitely deleted that one. Let’s try this again, keep it anonymous, and all that.’
Malcolm stared at the pair of them. ‘Wait, what do you mean, “this unfortunate gentleman will be”—’
It wasn’t the hardest slap he’d ever received, but it came out of nowhere, jerking his head to the side, leaving the edge of his mouth stinging.
A squeak of nitrile as Allegra rubbed at her slapping hand. ‘Did I say you could talk?’
‘You’re bloody children! You don’t scare me!’
‘Oh dear. That’s unfortunate, isn’t it?’
‘Aha! Yes.’ Hugo inched closer. ‘Most unfortunate indeed.’ He reached into the pocket of his hoodie and pulled out a long thin parcel wrapped in newspaper. About eighteen inches long. ‘Still, “The goat will bleat till its throat is slit.” As my dear grandmama always says.’ He unwrapped the newspaper parcel, one-handed, and a kitchen knife’s long curved blade gleamed in the light from his phone.
Malcolm pushed himself further into the wall. ‘You... don’t scare me. I’m a police officer!’
Allegra shook her head, reaching into her own hoodie pocket. ‘Not any more, you’re not: they fired you years ago.’ The hand came out, wrapped around the handle of a claw hammer. The one she’d used to wake Malcolm up two hours ago, when he’d been sleeping in the doorway of McCartney’s Hair and Beauty, minding his own business and not bothering anyone.
Just seeing it made his swollen wrist burn and throb. ‘You can’t do this, it’s—’
‘Do you think we picked you at random, Malcolm? Because we didn’t.’
‘Fortune favours the prepared, old man.’
‘We’ve been tracking you all day.’ She flexed her gloved fingers around the hammer’s grip. ‘Don’t you want to know how we found you tonight? Here? In the woods so dark and deep? All hidden away like a frightened little mouse?’
‘If... if you go away now, you won’t get into any trouble. I promise.’
Her voice jumped up a bit, taking on a saccharine lisp. ‘Oh, you poor man, you look so cold in that tatty old jacket! Daddy says I can spend my birthday money on anything I like, and I’d like to help you!’
It’s a frigid Monday lunchtime and Malcolm’s in his usual spot, outside the train station, sitting cross-legged on his square of cardboard and his sleeping bag, a battered baseball cap on the pavement in front of him. Huffing a steaming breath into his cupped hands, trying to get some life back in his frozen fingers. Huddling in the threadbare coat he ‘inherited’ when Sparky Steve got taken off with the Covid. The coat with ragged cuffs, holes in the elbows, and a big stain down the back.
So much for the Super Scorching Scottish Summer the tabloids had promised. Since when was August colder than February? And people still said global warming was a load of old—
‘Excuse me?’
He looks up and there’s a pretty little red-haired girl, holding a bag from Primark that’s almost as big as she is. Pigtails. Freckles. Tartan skirt. Blue school blazer with some sort of crest on the pocket, so her parents must be worth a bob or two.
He gives her his best I’m-so-pitiful smile. ‘Got any spare change?’
‘Oh, you poor man, you look so cold in that tatty old jacket! Daddy says I can spend my birthday money on anything I like, and I’d like to help you!’ She holds the bag out towards him. ‘It’s so you don’t catch your death.’
He pulls his chin in and frowns at her for a moment. Is she taking the piss? Playing ‘Mock the Poor Homeless Bastard’? Is she going to scream ‘Paedo!’ at him if he goes anywhere near?
She places the bag on the pavement in front of him, then digs into her pocket and comes out with a tenner. Drops that in his empty cap. ‘Now you can get something tasty to eat too!’ All perky and helpful.
So Malcolm opens the bag and takes out a nice new padded jacket — one of the dark-red shiny kind that look a bit like a duvet with sleeves. Stares at it. Then at her. Then at the jacket again.
Licks his lips.
Feels actual tears welling up. He chokes the knot out of his voice for long enough to give her a mumbled, ‘Thank you. It’s... Thank you.’
‘Put it on! Put it on!’
And Malcolm wriggles his way out of Sparky Steve’s manky jacket and into the brand-new padded one. Warm and cosy and the nicest thing anyone’s done for him for years. ‘Thank you.’
‘I sewed a GPS tag into the lining. My companion here’s been tracking you on his phone.’
‘Like a veritable bloodhound. Keen of eye and sharp of nose.’ Hugo raised the blade. ‘And knife, of course. Mustn’t forget the knife.’
Malcolm’s back pressed hard against the wall. Voice wobbling. ‘Please, I don’t want to die...’
‘I know.’ Allegra patted him on the shoulder, her voice soft and kind. ‘But sometimes that’s just how life is: some people live happily ever after; some people get stabbed. Or strangled. Or battered with a hammer.’ She patted the claw hammer’s metal head against her gloved palm. ‘Or torn open like a bloody envelope.’