He’d been dying.
He’d given up without a fight. He’d watched his blood spreading out and he just lay there, not caring one way or the other. He needed help. He needed someone like himself to help him.
He was giving in too easily.
The midnight light caught the boy’s face and turned it as smooth as ivory. His eyes had darkened and his eyelashes seemed incredibly long. His slim frame leant toward the window.
“I know you, don’t I? Yeah, yeah. It’s you. I thought you might be back, some day. One day. Like, you know, don’t you? Dosh, dosh, dick, dick. Gotta be it. Can’t hide it. Not really. But you don’t hang around here, do you? Or didn’t you know?” The voice was confident, older, and faintly taunting. This was his turf, after all, and there was someone in the shadows listening in. “What happened to your face?” “Doesn’t matter.”
“Nice one. Bet it wasn’t shaving. Well, shall I get in, or what?
Dick, dick. Make up your mind?”
“You’ve got the wrong idea, just like before.”
“Yeah, yeah. I know. Honest I do. Well, time’s ticking. Time is dosh. Dosh, right? Dick dosh, dick dosh. No time to chat, right?”
The street was surprisingly busy. But maybe not that surprising. Revellers staggered from the boozers toward the clubs, green bottles swinging. It was party night and it had to last until New Year’s Eve. “Get in.”
He pulled open the door, waved to the shadow who watched from a shop doorway then slid into the passenger seat. Closer, lost in the leather, he seemed even slimmer than before. The sweet scent of weed filled the car. Female leaf or maybe pollen. It was strong. It was on his hands and in his clothes. The car pulled out into traffic and neon strip washed the windscreen. In the car the lights slid across their faces. The boy stirred nervously, his feet tapping the devil’s dance, his laced fingers opening and closing. It was always a gamble. You could never tell. Psychos looked like the man next door. This one worked with the coppers but that didn’t mean a thing. He knew this one, but you never knew, not really.
“Tick tock, dick dosh.”
“What do they call you now? Has it changed?”
“Anything you like.”
“You choose?”
“Noel then. I like Noel.”
“Christmas?”
“Oasis. Noel Gallagher.”
Maynard smiled into the darkness. Another strip blinked red as they passed a fried chicken takeaway. It flared on his stitches. He asked, “How old are you?” The red went out and left him in green from the dash.
“Thirteen if you like. Or sixteen. Or eighteen if it bothers you. I’m easy. I know a place. Supermarket car park is good, at the back. Empty at this time. Dick, dick. That’s the place. The barrier’s always up.” Maynard shook his head. He skirted Lover’s Wood and pulled in at the back, beyond a line of shivering firs. The floor beneath was thick with needles and cones that crunched under the wheels. The car pushed through grass and bramble that swiped at the windows and sprang up behind them. He turned off the engine and they sat in the dark listening to the wind. The woods creaked and the grass brushed against the car.
Patches of night sky freed itself from the rushing clouds and glistened enough to glow on the boy’s delicate features.
Maynard said quietly, “It’s almost Christmas Day.”
The boy glanced at the dash clock. “Yeah, that’s a thing, innit? I’m going to be your Christmas present.”