Doctor Who_ Bad Therapy - Matthew Jones [79]
Mikey was pulling the last bow tight when he heard Jack curse. He stood up in time to see a large, expensive-looking car heading down the road towards them. The saloon car was completely out of place in their street.
He turned to Jack, who was staring at the car. ‘What? Is that them?’
‘I dunno. It could be the law, I suppose?’
As the car drew close, it suddenly accelerated towards them.
Mikey
glimpsed two young white men in the front seats, glaring intently at them.
Mikey had seen that look before.
‘That’s not the law. Come on, Jack, we gotta get out of here! Run!’ Discard-ing his bags, Mikey took one of Dennis’s hands, Jack took the other and they set off down the street pulling the boy along between them.
‘Whee!’ Dennis yelled, oblivious to the danger, kicking the air as his feet left the ground.
Fear gripped Mikey and he found it hard to take proper breaths as he ran.
How were they going to get Dennis away from the Scratons? If the little boy had seen them kill Jack’s friend, then they wouldn’t stop until they had got him. There was no way they were going to be able to get away on foot. He could hear the throaty sound of the car’s engine as it came alongside them, effortlessly matching their desperate pace.
Please don’t let them have guns! Mikey prayed, but he didn’t dare look across to see.
As they reached the end of Silchester Road, the car mounted the pavement, the wheels hitting the kerb with a thump. It crashed into the front wall of one of the derelict Victorian town houses on the other side of the pavement, cutting off their escape.
Mikey and Jack skidded to a halt and started back down the street, still clutching little Dennis between them.
The driver’s door opened first, a
scrawny looking young man with fiery red hair and a scar running down his cheek, leapt out of the car and raced towards them.
132
Mikey heard Jack gasp in terror. He must have recognized the man. The scar-faced man was staring directly at Mikey, his angular, mean face twisted with hatred, and beyond that fear.
‘You’re dead!’ the man spat. ‘Do you hear me? Dead.’
Mikey must have frozen, because the next thing he remembered was Dennis tugging at his arm. ‘We gotta go, Mikey. Go now.’
The scar-faced man pulled something from his jacket. It was a knife. Only then did Mikey find the ability to turn and run.
And by then it was far too late.
‘Bloody amateur!’ Billy Spot yelled after Carl, trying to attract his attention and failing. Spot jumped out of the car and gave chase. What was Carl Scraton going to do? Kill the boy in the middle of the street?
Carl leapt at the older black’s retreating back. He got a grip on the collar of his cheap suit and pulled him down roughly on to the ground, where he sprawled across the pavement.
The boy he had come to kill was too far away for Carl to reach and would have probably got away if he’d kept running, but for some reason the little boy turned and ran back. Carl couldn’t believe his luck. The little boy was actually trying to stage a rescue attempt! The futility of the gesture made Carl laugh out loud. His mirth only enraged the boy, who screamed as he kicked at Carl and tried to push him off his brother.
The queer who’d broken into the club the other night had hesitated at first, as if he didn’t know what to do, but now he was heading back, following the little boy’s example. How stupid could you get? Carl thought to himself. What did the dirty little bleeder think he was gonna do?
The older black had hit the pavement hard and wasn’t going anywhere. Carl landed a satisfying punch to his stomach just to be certain, and then reached out and grabbed hold of the boy he’d come for, lifting him clean off his feet.
Yes!
The boy wriggled in his grasp, kicking out desperately. Carl barely felt the blows against his shins. He spun the boy around and trapped his small, fragile neck under his arm. He could probably break