Blood RED. Paul Kane

he was oh so hungry tonight.

      CHAPTER SIX

      True to form, the bus was spectacularly late.

      Rachael had been waiting over half an hour before it trundled along to the stop. Even when they did get going, it took the long way round, cranking to a halt at every shelter between her home and her destination. Within a few miles of Handley Crescent, the sky was turning a deeper shade of blue.

      It would be pitch black soon.

      As she sat there, bored out of her brains and with the vibrating seat sending shockwaves up her body that she could well do without (not to mention the yapping of a small dog that one woman brought on board, which she was cradling in her arms like a baby), Rachael concentrated on writing another mental ‘to do’ list.

      At number 1) she had NEVER DRINK AGAIN! in capitals, just to ram home the message. She never wanted to feel like this again. Number 2) was phone her mother tomorrow. In space 3) she wrote ‘get the prescription to Tilly’, which she was doing right now. While 4)—and this was quite a crucial one, she thought—was get back again in one piece, thank you very much.

      She was thinking about this last one when she realised the bus had stopped and the driver was calling for everyone to get off.

      “What’s happening?” she shouted up to him.

      “Bus terminates here on a Saturday,” he told her.

      “You’re joking. I need to get to the Greenham Estate.”

      He laughed out loud. “I reckon you’re the one who’s joking, darlin’. Why’d you think the bus stops here on Saturday nights? Don’t get much call for tourists going there at night.”

      “Give me a break, I’m on an errand of mercy.”

      He looked at her and said in a deadpan tone: “No such thing as mercy in that place.” Then he began laughing again.

      Rachael snatched up the chemist’s bag. “Thanks a bunch.”

      There were enough people on the streets, and enough cars on the road—folks heading out for the night to blow off steam after another hectic week of work—that Rachael didn’t feel the need to worry yet. It was also brightly-lit in this part of the city, and she knew that CCTV cameras were positioned on most of the buildings.

      However, the more she slogged along, the darker it became as night-time fell and the streetlamps grew farther and farther apart. The crowds dwindled as the streets got longer, shadows lengthening down the alleyways as she reached the edge of the estate.

      Rachael tapped her pocket, glad that she’d finally taken Steph’s advice and dug the mobile phone out from under all those knickers. It gave her some assurance, at least. But not much. If anything was to occur, how long would it take the police to get here? Five minutes, ten? Long enough for anything to happen.

      Tilly, how the hell did you end up living in an area like this? You should be in a nice little cottage near the coast, watching the sun go down over the ocean. Instead, you’re slap bang in the middle of crime central, with druggies and who knows what else only a stone’s throw away.

      She passed what they laughably called a park around here: through the bars of the rusted railings, some of the spiked posts virtually hanging off, Rachael saw the swings, or at least a frame—the seats themselves were conspicuous by their absence. The assault course had been smashed to bits, too, leaving only a duck pond with no ducks—or water, for that matter—all surrounded by a façade of trees to make it look more like the countryside. It looked anything but. There was a plaque at the entrance that someone had defaced—it should have read ‘Opened by the Mayor’ but it now said: ‘Open Your Legs’; the first bit scratched out, the last part sprayed on in paint. The date alongside it was 15th February 1973. A simpler time, when perhaps this area had potential.

      As Rachael drew closer to Handley Crescent, she began to get that feeling again. The same one she’d had outside the pub last night when Steph had been wittering on; a feeling like she was being watched.

      It wasn’t really surprising in this neck of the woods. Shadows were on every street corner, things moving down alleys, underneath mounds of paper. The inhabitants of Greenham Estate were coming out to play, and not at the park either.

      Rachael clutched the paper bag to her chest, gripping the top tightly. Who knew what the people hereabouts would do for free painkillers? It didn’t matter what it was, so long as it was a drug. Some were too far gone to even know the difference.

      She heard footsteps behind her and turned. Nothing there. When she continued walking, Rachael heard them again. But once more, she looked back to see no one. Screw this, she thought. As soon as I get to Tilly’s and I’ve dropped off the medicine, I’m ringing for a taxi—stuff the cost! That was, of course, assuming a taxi would venture near Handley Crescent at night. The bus driver wasn’t exaggerating when he said people steered clear of here, especially when the sun went down.

      The footsteps came again. Rachael increased her pace, but then so did whoever was following her.

      Clu-clump, it went, clu-clump, clu-clump, clu-clump ...

      Rachael risked yet another look, but still couldn’t see anything—possibly because it was almost black behind her now. In front of her too, in fact. She didn’t like this at all, not one bit. It was fair enough if some thug wanted to terrorise her, but the least they could do was be up front about it. This person was playing games, toying with her.

      “Who’s back there?” she shouted, and immediately regretted it. Sounded like something people said in those corny thrillers on Channel Five when they were in exactly this kind of situation; well, maybe not exactly this one. Usually, they were smuggling top secret files or on the run from the mob. In any event, nobody would ever answer them, just like nobody answered her tonight.

      But as she walked again, the footfalls grew louder and quicker until it sounded like they were almost upon her. Rachael didn’t look around this time, she just ran—up one street and down another. The noise followed her every step of the way, closing in, so close that she thought the person behind her would put a hand on her shoulder and spin her around.

      Rachael rounded one corner and then hid behind the wall, hoping whoever it was would overshoot and run past. They didn’t. The footsteps slowed—then finally stopped. Rachael leaned back against the wall and let out a slow breath. Gearing herself up, she risked a peek round that corner.

      The figure leapt out at her, pushing her back into the alley.

      “Boo!” he said. Rachael couldn’t see his face at first, but she definitely recognised the voice. And now, yes, she could see the outline of the cap he was wearing.

      Two more figures joined the first; the hooded shape striking a match and lighting the stubby cigarette in his mouth.

      It was the two youths from outside Tilly’s yesterday morning, plus one extra addition: this one slightly older, wearing a padded jacket and jeans. The light from the match showed her more of their features, and it became clear that there was some sort of family bond between the lads, such was their physical resemblance: brothers perhaps, or cousins? She backed up until she hit the wall.

      “Well hello again, gorgeous,” said Cap, obviously the spokesman for the group. “Just couldn’t keep away, eh?”

      Rachael pulled a face.

      The gang still had cans of lager, and Padded Jacket gulped his greedily before crushing it in his fist and tossing it aside. “Who is she?” he asked, wiping his mouth.

      “Dunno,” said Cap. “I think she might be some kinda nurse. We saw her yesterday on the Crescent, didn’t we P?”

      The hood moved, which Rachael took for a nod. She made a move to run up the alley, but the lad wearing the cap placed his hand on the wall behind her.

      “That right? You a nurse?” His lager-tinged breath overpowered her.

      Rachael