himself and the boy, who was still asleep beside him, he began
to struggle, the waxy knots of the washing line squeaking as they rubbed. Billy watched him, sitting cross-legged on the floor. He took a penknife from his pocket and pulled out the blade from the
brown wooden handle and began cleaning his fingernails, flicking black dirt on to the carpet.
‘What do you want?’ asked Cook eventually.
‘How long have you got?’ replied Billy and grinned.
‘I don’t have any money in the house.’
‘I know,’ said Billy, shrugging.
‘Who are you?’
‘A man, like you, but beyond that then we’re both struggling, en’t we?’
‘Let my grandson go.’
‘He en’t yer grandson.’
Cook watched Billy move on to the other set of nails.
‘What do you want with them?’
‘It’s Webster we want. The boy’s just bait.’ Billy raised his eyebrows as something occurred to him. ‘For now anyway.’
‘What’s Webster done?’
‘It’s what’s been done to him is more important.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
But Billy did not seem to hear the question.
‘Yoo’se gonna speak to him when he comes back. Tell him he’s coming with us because he’s got no choice. Because we got the boy.’ Billy winced as the tip of the
knife went in too deep beneath a nail. ‘And we don’t want him hurting himself neither or doing nothing stupid. Webster’s a valuable man to us. Special.’
Billy reached for a holdall on the floor beside the sofa and drew out a pair of handcuffs which he laid on the glass coffee table in front of Cook.
‘He’s to lock himself up in these.’
‘What if he doesn’t want to?’
Billy shrugged.
‘My ma is the one who’ll do it. She’s got those skills. And she won’t have an ounce of guilt if it comes to using them on the boy.’
Cook thought about that. He tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry.
‘Webster’s his own man. He won’t do what I say.’
‘Then you’ll both be to blame for what happens to the boy.’ Billy placed the penknife down on the coffee table away from the handcuffs. ‘The world’s a tough old
place for sure,’ he sighed, ‘but I reckon you know that better than me.’ He set the penknife spinning on the glass top and watched the blade flashing back the daylight. ‘I
know you en’t always lived here on yer own. Not in this big old house.’ Billy grinned and lowered his voice. ‘My ma can still smell her in the curtains and the furniture.’
The knife stopped, the blade pointing directly at Cook. ‘We all take our turn eventually, don’t we? En’t nothing we can do about that.’
Cook stared at the penknife. And then looked away, remembering his wife. Her golden hair. The shape of her mouth. The pinch of the Cupid’s bow. The hollow in the small of her back where he
would lay his hand.
‘You tell Webster to stay nice and calm. We want him without a scratch. He’s a special man.’
‘So you keep saying,’ said Cook. ‘What’s so special about him?’
Billy smiled. Folded his arms.
‘He was attacked on the night of a full moon.’
‘So?’
When Billy saw Cook’s blank stare, he threw back his head and howled at the ceiling, his throat gobbling like a turkey’s. Cook began shaking his head as soon as he realized.
‘He’s got the marks to prove it,’ said Billy, ‘the story to tell too. That’s why he’s come back here. To try and undo what happened to him in the park before
we found him and made him ours. My ma’s seen it and the boy told her too when she asked him. Webster’s got this notion he can forgive the creature what attacked him so he don’t
become one neither.’ Billy smiled. ‘They spoke to a priest about it.’ He shrugged as though it was all beyond him. ‘I en’t so sure there’s any way to undo
what’s happened.’ He picked up the penknife and folded the blade away, stowing it in his trouser pocket. And then he looked up at Cook and smiled. ‘Just like there en’t no
way of
to struggle, the waxy knots of the washing line squeaking as they rubbed. Billy watched him, sitting cross-legged on the floor. He took a penknife from his pocket and pulled out the blade from the
brown wooden handle and began cleaning his fingernails, flicking black dirt on to the carpet.
‘What do you want?’ asked Cook eventually.
‘How long have you got?’ replied Billy and grinned.
‘I don’t have any money in the house.’
‘I know,’ said Billy, shrugging.
‘Who are you?’
‘A man, like you, but beyond that then we’re both struggling, en’t we?’
‘Let my grandson go.’
‘He en’t yer grandson.’
Cook watched Billy move on to the other set of nails.
‘What do you want with them?’
‘It’s Webster we want. The boy’s just bait.’ Billy raised his eyebrows as something occurred to him. ‘For now anyway.’
‘What’s Webster done?’
‘It’s what’s been done to him is more important.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
But Billy did not seem to hear the question.
‘Yoo’se gonna speak to him when he comes back. Tell him he’s coming with us because he’s got no choice. Because we got the boy.’ Billy winced as the tip of the
knife went in too deep beneath a nail. ‘And we don’t want him hurting himself neither or doing nothing stupid. Webster’s a valuable man to us. Special.’
Billy reached for a holdall on the floor beside the sofa and drew out a pair of handcuffs which he laid on the glass coffee table in front of Cook.
‘He’s to lock himself up in these.’
‘What if he doesn’t want to?’
Billy shrugged.
‘My ma is the one who’ll do it. She’s got those skills. And she won’t have an ounce of guilt if it comes to using them on the boy.’
Cook thought about that. He tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry.
‘Webster’s his own man. He won’t do what I say.’
‘Then you’ll both be to blame for what happens to the boy.’ Billy placed the penknife down on the coffee table away from the handcuffs. ‘The world’s a tough old
place for sure,’ he sighed, ‘but I reckon you know that better than me.’ He set the penknife spinning on the glass top and watched the blade flashing back the daylight. ‘I
know you en’t always lived here on yer own. Not in this big old house.’ Billy grinned and lowered his voice. ‘My ma can still smell her in the curtains and the furniture.’
The knife stopped, the blade pointing directly at Cook. ‘We all take our turn eventually, don’t we? En’t nothing we can do about that.’
Cook stared at the penknife. And then looked away, remembering his wife. Her golden hair. The shape of her mouth. The pinch of the Cupid’s bow. The hollow in the small of her back where he
would lay his hand.
‘You tell Webster to stay nice and calm. We want him without a scratch. He’s a special man.’
‘So you keep saying,’ said Cook. ‘What’s so special about him?’
Billy smiled. Folded his arms.
‘He was attacked on the night of a full moon.’
‘So?’
When Billy saw Cook’s blank stare, he threw back his head and howled at the ceiling, his throat gobbling like a turkey’s. Cook began shaking his head as soon as he realized.
‘He’s got the marks to prove it,’ said Billy, ‘the story to tell too. That’s why he’s come back here. To try and undo what happened to him in the park before
we found him and made him ours. My ma’s seen it and the boy told her too when she asked him. Webster’s got this notion he can forgive the creature what attacked him so he don’t
become one neither.’ Billy smiled. ‘They spoke to a priest about it.’ He shrugged as though it was all beyond him. ‘I en’t so sure there’s any way to undo
what’s happened.’ He picked up the penknife and folded the blade away, stowing it in his trouser pocket. And then he looked up at Cook and smiled. ‘Just like there en’t no
way of
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