It was an Adam-9 briefcase, wasn’t it? What would Adam do in a situation like this?
And then his thumb was flipping open the secret compartment on the handle, manipulating the controls only he understood, selecting the gas jet, which was now spurting forth a dense white plume from the end of the case. Daniel closed his eyes and held out the briefcase and began to twirl on the spot, spinning and spinning while the gas created an impenetrable cloud all around him. He could hear the insults and the laughter, but he kept on revolving, keeping the attackers at bay while his special briefcase did its job of enveloping him in its protective smokescreen.
And then the voices were gone, and Daniel stopped spinning. He felt a little sick and dizzy, and so he opened his eyes.
The boys had disappeared.
Daniel looked down at his trusty briefcase. It had rescued him, but he was still saddened by what had happened.
He started for home again, trying to ignore the blood trickling from his nose and across his swollen lip, trying to avoid thinking about the drawing that had been destroyed.
Think about nice things, he told himself. Happy things.
And so he thought about his upcoming birthday. His chippy meal. His Colin the Caterpillar cake. His mother would put candles on it.
She would need a lot of candles.
In a couple of weeks, Daniel would be twenty-three years old.
2
Scott Timpson was glad to get home. For the most part, he loved his job at the garage, but sometimes it could be a pain in the arse. It wasn’t the cars; it was their owners. Most were friendly enough, but some were never satisfied. One guy today was convinced that he’d been charged for an oil change that had never actually taken place. It was nonsense, of course, but to keep him happy Scott had had to do it all over again for free while the man watched. Then there was the idiot who claimed that someone had been on a joyride in his car while it had been in for a service, putting hundreds of extra miles on the clock. Other than deny it, there was nothing that Scott could do about that one.
So he was glad to be home, even though home wasn’t exactly a mansion, and this neighbourhood of Stockford wasn’t exactly well-to-do. He hoped one day to save enough money to put a deposit on a nice little house somewhere, but his job didn’t pay a lot, and their finances always seemed tight. Bills had an annoying habit of cropping up at the most inconvenient times. For now, Erskine Court would have to do.
The structure itself was a depressing sight. A drab grey column with no redeeming architectural features. It was the residential equivalent of the coffee cream at the bottom of the chocolate box. It had two entrances: one on the street at the front of the building, and the other here facing onto the car park. Scott felt the familiar stab of irritation as soon as he reached the door.
It was supposed to be secure. It was supposed to be protected by a lock that required a magnetic key card. It was supposed to keep out intruders.
The problem was that there was a certain local element that didn’t believe in doing what they were supposed to do. Instead, they would wait for a resident to open the door and sneak in behind, which they could usually get away with because there were so many people in this building that nobody knew who lived here and who didn’t. Another trick was to keep buzzing individual flats in turn until someone surrendered and unlocked the door remotely. It only took one undesirable to gain entry; they would then act as gatekeeper for their mates.
Or they would simply do what Scott was looking at now.
He bent forwards and picked up the half-brick that was jamming the door open, then went inside.
They were here, in the cavernous foyer. About half a dozen of them this time. The numbers varied. They were in their late teens, early twenties. All wearing hoodies, the uniform of their generation. Supping from cheap cans of lager and smoking roll-ups. Usually, Scott would ignore them and head straight for the lift, knowing that to challenge them would be to take his life in his hands, especially now that everyone and his dog seemed to carry a knife.
Today, he was feeling either particularly brave or particularly foolhardy.
He wandered over to the gang. He had never spoken to any of them before, but he had noticed the way they always paid deference to one particular member. He had heard them call him ‘Biggo’, even though he was the shortest there. Or perhaps because of it. Slightly older than the others, his shaven red hair and round pale face made Scott think of a matchstick.
The youths turned as one to face Scott. They were young and fit and confident in their superiority.
‘What you going to do with that?’ Biggo asked with a smile.
Scott looked down at the brick still in his hand. Yes, he thought, what am I going to do with it?
‘You’re not supposed to prop open the door,’ he answered.
‘Wouldn’t dream of it, mate.’
Scott knew he had to be careful. He couldn’t just come right out and call Biggo a liar. That would be suicide.
‘The door is supposed to remain shut. Somebody used this to keep it open.’
‘Well, it wouldn’t be us, would it? In case you haven’t noticed, we’re already inside. We wouldn’t want any riff-raff coming in here and giving us grief, would we?’
‘You don’t live here.’
‘Doesn’t matter. We were invited in.’
‘Who by?’
Biggo took a drag on his cigarette and blew smoke in Scott’s direction.
‘What’s it got to do with you?’
‘You’re not supposed to smoke or drink here. There are signs up.’
Biggo looked around. His eyes alighted on a notice taped to the wall near the front door. He nodded to one of his friends, who then strolled across to the notice, tore it down, and stuffed it into the pocket of his hoodie.
Biggo turned to Scott again. ‘What signs?’
Scott felt his anger mounting, but it was directed more at himself than these scum in front of him. He felt utterly powerless and insignificant. His legs were actually beginning to shake.
‘Just . . . just stop coming here,’ was the best he could do, and then he walked away, wishing that he had ignored them as he did every other day, because to act otherwise was to invite in this overwhelming sense of humiliation.
‘Have you adopted that brick?’ Biggo called after him. ‘You should get a pram for it. What’s its name?’
