Birthdays for the dead

He tightened his grip on the steering wheel, twisting his hands as if he was trying to wring its neck. All he needed was arthritis, a dead daughter, and a hole in his foot.

The steering column s plastic casing was cracked open like a big grey pistachio nut. Wires stuck out, their shiny copper ends twisted together. You hotwired my car

Dawson took a deep breath. Then the words came out in a rush, like a shaken can of Coke. The Birthday Boy didn t kill Brenda.

I sighed. Let my head fall against the cool glass of the passenger window. It was your mum, wasn t it? She didn t approve.

Thought she was a gold-digger, but Mum s wrong.

So she killed Brenda.

Silence.

No. Because I got there first.

The street was quiet and dark as Dawson pulled the Renault off the road and onto the square of gravel behind a bland concrete building: three storeys tall, lights glowing in the windows.

I blinked. Arms were like lead, legs too. Probably lost a fair bit of blood.

He half helped, half dragged me out of the car. Can you walk?

Isn t Yeah. Step, scuff Step, scuff

He lifted my arm and hooked it over his shoulder. Not much further.

The back door opened with a Yale key and we hobbled along a narrow corridor to a flight of stairs, going down. Bloody hell, why did it have to be stairs?

Step, thunk Step, thunk Using my heel to take the weight.

A blue door lay at the bottom with a letterbox in it. Dawson took out his keys again, fiddled with the locks, and we were through into a little basement flat filled with the sticky warm smell of baking.

He closed the door and locked it again three heavy deadbolts, and a metal rod that hooked into a big steel plate on the door and an eyelet in the floorboards.

We had cannabis farms back home with weaker security.

Dawson took off his coat and hung it on a hook. Bren? Bren, it s me.

A voice from down the hall. How was practice?

He led me through into a little kitchen, painted a cheery shade of yellow. A young girl stood in front of an electric cooker, stirring something in a pot. Fish fingers and apple crumble, if you re She turned long blonde hair, with a razor-sharp fringe like her mum.

The smile on Brenda Chadwick s face disappeared. She dropped her wooden spoon and cupped her swollen belly with both hands.

Who s this?

Dawson held up his hands. It s OK, I can explain.

You d better!

A cup of hot milky tea and a plate of fish fingers, mash potato, and spaghetti hoops sat on the table in front of me. Congealing while Dawson and Brenda wolfed down their dinner.

Brenda scooped up the last of her hoops, then sat back stroking the top of her bulge. So you see, we couldn t stay. If Dawson s mum found out I was pregnant she d kill our baby. And me.

Could ve run away.

Dawson shook his head, wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

You don t know Mum. She d find us, wherever we went.

Brilliant. I pushed my plate away. But not if she thought Brenda was already dead.

That s why I said I saw Bren getting grabbed. He stared down at his hands. Mum didn t used to be like this, it s only since they crippled Dad

Just a working mother looking after the family business.

Brenda stared at me. It was my idea. They printed that Inverness girl s card in the papers, and we made our photo look like that.

You faked the abduction, you faked the card, and you got a flat in Gloucester to hide in.

Dawson nodded. A man takes care of his family.

A pair of thirteen-year-olds playing house. Yeah, that was going to last.

Brenda smiled up at him. I know it s not much, but it s ours. Dawson skims a little from his mum every week: enough to pay the rent and buy things for the baby.

I m saving up for a deposit. We ll have a real home soon.

My phone rang. Dawson and Brenda flinched. I let it go through to voicemail. What about your mum and dad?

She lowered her head. This way, she won t hurt them either.

After dinner, Dawson helped me through into the bathroom. I sat on the edge of the toilet while Brenda cut away the scuffed black-plastic bag, then the duct tape underneath. The towel was stained dark red it splatched down into the yellow bathtub, sending little droplets of blood up the sides.

Oh dear She licked her lips, rubbed the fingertips of her Marigold gloves together. Stared at the dripping mass of duct tape and leather. Do you want me to pull the shoe off, or should I, you know: cut it?

Now the bathroom smelled of fireworks and black pudding.

Cut it. It s ruined anyway.

I closed my eyes and gritted my teeth. Bits of shoe clattered into the tub.

A clunk. A hiss. Then warmth spread across my foot.

I peeked.

Brenda played the shower head back and forth, washing off thick slugs of congealed blood. She puffed out her cheeks, brows creased.

Come on, Bren, you can do this