John Harvey - Easy Meat

“I thought you wanted something more,” the boy said, looking at the money now in his hand.

“Let’s just see, shall we? See how we go. I think that’s enough to be going on with.”

Without another word, the boy turned and Brian Noble, not without the exhilaration of fear, followed him down towards the trees.

Nicky had upturned every jar and ornament, opened every box and drawer, and all he’d come up with was a few pounds’ worth of five-p pieces inside a half-size whisky bottle and a postal order for one pound, forty-two. It went without saying they had neither a stereo nor a VCR, just a poxy plastic radio that wasn’t worth taking and a postage stamp TV that was more state of the ark than art.

He would have to try upstairs. See what, aside from the old man’s best trousers, they kept under the mattress.

Under the worn tread of the carpet, the stairs squeaked a little and groaned, however lightly Nicky placed his feet.

“Slowly,” Brian Noble said, his voice a hissed whisper. “Go more slowly. That’s it, that’s it. There.”

He was leaning back against the rough-hewn stonework of the cemetery wall, its unevenness poking hard against his shoulders, the back of his head, base of his spine.

“That’s it, that’s lovely. Go on, go on.”

The boy stood close alongside him, always looking away, his elbow pressing into Noble’s arm. Noble wanted to dip his head and kiss the V of hair, dark at the back of the boy’s neck, but knew that if he did the boy would pull away. Instead, he set his right hand softly against the boy’s waist, and when there was no resistance, slid it down over his hip and round until his finger ends were resting on the boy’s buttocks. He felt the boy’s muscles tense and prepared to pull his hand away but it was all right, there was no need.

Faint, he could see the headlights along Gregory Boulevard, strung like a moving lantern between the trees.

“Christ!” the boy complained. “How much longer you gonna be?”

“It’s okay, okay. Just … here, here, touch me here as well.” And he caught hold of the boy’s other hand and thrust it inside his open trousers, tightening it around his balls.

“Oh, God! Oh, God! Oh, God! Oh, Holy Christ! That’s it, that’s it!”

Hips thrust forward, back arched, Noble’s head smacked back against the cemetery wall, once, twice, three times as he came between the fingers of the boy’s hand. “Oh, God! Yes!” Eyes closed, he bit down into the flesh of his lower lip and groaned his pleasure and release, even as the boy was squatting low to wipe away the semen from his hand on the rough grass.

When Brian Noble reopened his eyes, the figures were standing silent between the nearest trees.

“We are police officers …” one of them said and the boy was away, leaping for the cemetery wall, both arms hooked over and pulling his legs after, one foot on top and the other swinging round as Lynn caught hold of his ankle tight and dragged him back, the boy kicking now, kicking and swearing, punching out at her with his fists until the other one joined in, the pair of them hauling him back across the grass and twisting him round, arms tight behind his back and close enough to snap the handcuffs shut about his wrists.

“Hello, Martin,” Lynn said, rolling him round onto his side. “Nice to see you again.”

Martin jerked back his head, but she was ready for him and the mouthful of phlegm sailed harmlessly past.

Brian Noble had sunk down to his knees in front of Sharon Garnett, shaking, tears in his eyes.

“You do not have to say anything,” Sharon was saying. “But it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”

Through his tears, Noble looked up at her.

“Do you understand that?” Sharon asked. Noble nodded.

“Well, if I were you, I’d zip myself up. Nippy, these squirrels can be, this time of year.”

Eric Netherfield had gone to bed each night for the past dozen years with a length of railing on the floor within reach. He had picked it up one day from a skipful of rubbish where a house was being cleared. “What on earth’ve you dragged that back for?” his wife Doris had said, and Eric had given his usual little shrug. “Come in handy some day, just you see.” Since the burglaries had started in earnest, up and down the street, the last thing Eric had done each night, after dropping his teeth into the glass beside the bed and wishing Doris God bless and good-night, was trail his fingers down towards that piece of iron, as if touching it for good luck.

Up until now, it had done the trick.

Standing back behind the bedroom door and struggling to control the wheezing from his chest, Eric listened as the pressure on the last stair caused it to squeak.

All Nicky saw, a faint bundle off to one side of the high bed, was Doris, one hand clutching at the turn of the sheet. He waited a moment longer, to be certain that she was asleep, then stepped inside the room.

Eric brought the railing down with all the strength he could muster, aiming for the head but striking the top of the shoulder with such force that the weapon was nearly jarred from his hands.

Nicky cried out at the sudden, searing pain and stumbled back across the room, the old man coming at him now, swinging that damned bar towards his face. Why the hell wouldn’t he just let him run? The third time the man swung at him, Nicky was in the doorway; he ducked inside the man’s arm and came up fast, headbutting him in the face. The iron bar fell past him and bounced haphazardly down the stairs.

Across the room, clothes pulled towards her skinny chest, the old woman was sobbing. Blood trickled from her husband’s nose.

Stupid fuckers! Deserve whatever they fucking get! “Where’s your fucking money?” Nicky yelled, driving him back into the room.

Eric made a fist at him and Nicky punched him in the neck, then barged him against the wardrobe hard. Wheezing heavily, Eric sank down to his knees.

“Where’s … the … fucking … money?” Nicky shouted in the man’s ear, punching him in the head to emphasize each word.

Slowly Eric raised his head. “Sod off, you little toerag!” he said, spittle on his lips.

Nicky stood back and kicked him in the chest.

“Don’t! My dear God, don’t! You’ll kill him!” Doris cried, and scrambled on all fours across the bed towards them.

Eric had collapsed against the foot of the wardrobe and no longer moved.

“Eric! Oh Eric!”

Nicky pushed Doris back across the bed and raced down the stairs as fast as he could. At the turn, his foot hooked under the length of iron and he tripped and fell headlong.

“Jesus! You bastard! You fucking bastard!” Winded, aching, Nicky leaned forward, hands on knees. The piece of railing had rolled close to his feet and now he picked it up and with a shout swung it at arm’s length, sending every ornament and picture from the mantelpiece flying. His wrist and shoulder where the man had hit him, he thought they might be broken. In the mirror, he caught a glimpse of his reflection, white and scared. Stupid cunt! What’d he have to have a go at him for? Why didn’t he let him just run? The mirror was hanging from a chain; he smashed it again. It wasn’t enough.

Back upstairs, Doris Netherfield was leaning over Eric, massaging his chest. When Nicky burst back into the room, she cradled herself across her husband to protect him, clinging to him as Nicky raised the bar above his head, then brought it down, time and again until his arms had begun to ache and he had had enough.

Seeing the blood for the first time, Nicky dropped the bar and ran.