Compulsion by Shaun Hutson `;07-' Also by Shaun Hutson SLUGS SPAWN ERE BUS SHADOWS BREEDING GROUND DEATH DAY RELICS VICTIMS ASSASSIN NEMESIS RENEGADES CAPTIVES HEATHEN DEADHEAD WHITE GHOST LUCY'S CHILD STOLEN ANGELS KNIFE EDGE PURITY WARHOL'S PROPHECY EXIT WOUNDS SHAUN HUT SON COMPULSION MACMILLAN First published 2001 by Macmillan an imprint of Macmillan Publishers Ltd 25 Eccleston Place, London SW1W 9NF Basingstoke and Oxford Associated companies throughout the world www.macmillan.com ISBN: 0- 333 73723 7 identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system or transitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical Photocopying recording or otherwise) without the prior wren pension o the pub.ishe, Any person who does any unautCed act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil clams for damages. A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. Typeset by Set Systems Ltd, Saffron Walden, Essex Printed and bound in Great Britain by Mackays of Chatham plc, Chatham, Kent This book is dedicated to Graeme Sayer and Callum Hughes With thanks ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS IT'S THAT TIME again, when I thank a wide ranging, unconnected group of people and places for some kind of support, help, encouragement or drugs (oops, sorry, didn't mean that to slip out...) received during the writing of this latest novel. Anyway, if you're in this list you'll probably know why but, in case you've forgotten why you're in it then read on. Many thanks to my agent, Sara Fisher for her skill, expertise and ability to handle even the most fragile egos. She's just not too good when she's stepping off tube trains ... Continued thanks to everyone at my publisher's, especially Peter Lavery. Also to Matt Smith. I don't usually give him a line on his own but my accountant, Mr. Peter Nichols, deserves one. I'd give him a bloody knighthood if I could ... Cheers, Pete. Special thanks also to Jack Taylor, Tom Sharp, Barbara Grant, Karen (yes, look, you're mentioned .. .) and Jim at the Clydesdale bank in Piccadilly. Thanks also to Lesley Tebbs, Lewis Bloch and Stephen Luckman. My usual nods towards Dee, Zena, Nicky, Jo, Terri, Becky and Rachel. Thanks also to Janette for sorting out our computer. Special thanks to Sanctuary Music. Rod Smallwood who frightened me to death with a phone call. To Polly Polglase. To Carol and Val. To my ever elusive, cheese-making, pig-breeding collossus of a friend, Wally Grove. Also to Steve, Dave, Adrian, Bruce, Janick and Nicko. As great as ever. Many thanks to James Whale and Ash. Many, many thanks to Martin 'gooner' Phillips for organising a football match I'm sure none of us will ever forget (my bloody legs still ache ...). I think we all turned back the clock that afternoon, mate. Special thanks to Hailey Owen. Christ knows where you are H, but wherever it is, I'm sure you're talking .. . See you soon. Many thanks also to Tori at Centurion card. Thanks once more to Ted and Molly. Indirect thanks, as ever, to Sam Peckinpah. Also to Bill Hicks. Both sadly missed. Thank you to Nike football boots, even if it is just to remind me that I'm not nineteen anymore. I would have got that return pass then, honest ... And also to Konami for inventing the best footie game ever to grace a Playstation. Mental blocks get eased that way nowadays. As ever, thank you to the Rhiga Royal Hotel in New York and to Margaret in Lindy's in Times Square. We shall return. A quick thanks to Cineworld in Milton Keynes where I now seem to spend most of my waking hours. Look, sixteen screens what the hell can I do? Huge thanks to Liverpool Football Club and all those in the Paisley Lounge. Steve 'househusband' (and bloody student) Lucas and Paul 'just aim for the AA van' Garner. Also thanks to Aaron Reynolds, when he's not on holiday, and to Simon Whitfield who's had me in more headlocks in a season than I care to remember. I'll send you a receipt. Cheers to all of you. I'm now, at long last, the proud and confused owner of a PC which means people can now annoy me via e-mail as well as phone and fax. However, for those of you who are computer literate (to me that means being able to switch the bloody thing on .. .) you will find, thanks to the incredible efforts of Graeme Sayer and Callum Hughes, a quite superb web site dedicated to all things Hutson. I read it every now and then to find out what I'm doing. Check out www.shaunhutson.com It's official and they've done a brilliant job on it. Thanks fellas. The last few thank yous go to my mum and dad. I wish there was an adequate way of thanking them for everything they've done and continue to do but there isn't. The same goes for my wife, Belinda. She organizes me, sorts out my financial stuff, calms me down and generally tolerates the kind of behaviour that would have had Mother Theresa looking for a pick-axe handle ... What the hell, the only thing she doesn't do is write the books ... I am because she is. Keep your eye on that Mazda, babe, because you won't get your hands on it ... (unless it's tax deductible). Finally, as ever, the other girl in my life. The apprentice cinema addict, trainee rock music junkie, fledge ling Liverpool fan and fully paid up member of the GLADIATOR appreciation society. My beautiful, wonderful, daughter. One day, all of this will be for you. The last thank you is for you lot. My readers. Without you there would really be very little point to any of this. For your continued support I humbly thank you. Let's go. Shaun Hutson Though this may be play to you, 'tis death to us. Sir Roger L'Estrange THEY MOVED EASILY in the darkness. Three shapes: shadows within shadow, portions of the umbra that had taken on life and detached themselves from the blanket of night wrapped tightly around them. Every so often the cutting edge of a torch beam would slice open the gloom, illuminating an object inside the house, sometimes lighting one of the three faces. When the beam pinpointed their features, they looked like phantoms. Fugitives from an unwanted dream. Two of them ravaged the ground floor of the house, stuffing cassettes into a bin bag. Manic Street Preachers. Blur. Oasis. The usual shit. Simply Red a foot crushed it contemptuously. Videos were snatched from a shelf: End of Days. Fight Club. The Blair Witch Project. They all went into the bag. Titanic crushed underfoot. The third figure ventured up the narrow staircase to the bedrooms. Three doors. All closed. The dark shape crossed the landing and pushed the first one open. Beyond was a small room. Posters on the wall: Boyzone. Steps. Bewitched. As talented as the paper they were grinning out from, the figure mused. There was a large stuffed dog on the bed. The figure crossed to it and shook it, then tossed it aside. Drawers were checked, skirts and T-shirts pulled out, scattered across the room. Leggings, jeans, socks and knickers were also hurled aside with the other belongings. There were some earrings on the dressing table. Worthless. The figure moved to the next room; it was slightly larger. More posters. Above the bed was one of Manchester United. The figure hawked loudly and spat on the picture. Thick sputum trickled down the faces of David Beckham and Roy Keane. Cunts. A small CD player was pushed into the black bag. It was joined by a Dreamcast console. Better pickings here. On to the last room. There were lots of books all swept onto the floor and trodden underfoot. More drawers wrenched open, more clothes hurled around. The figure hesitated, then picked up a pair of knickers. Soft, white cotton. Fingers trailed over the gusset. Nothing else worth having. The shape stood on the bed, unzipped grubby combat trousers and urinated onto the duvet. Downstairs, the other two were waiting. All three of them left the same way they had entered; through a small window in the kitchen at the rear of the house. There were pieces of broken glass on the window sill, inside and out. They made their way towards the bottom of the garden, swallowed up by the welcoming night. It was an easy climb over the fence into the field. They walked unhurriedly through the tall grass, dragging the dustbin bag. Behind them, the house remained silent. CARL THOMPSON DREW gently on the cigarette, then blew out a stream of bluish-grey smoke. It mingled with the steadily swelling cloud already hanging in the flat. The smell helped to mask the odour of damp that permeated the air inside the abandoned dwelling. "Give us a light," Graham Brown murmured, leaning closer to his companion. Thompson complied and Brown sucked heavily on the Super-king. At fourteen, Brown was two years Thompson's junior. Dressed in a dark blue Reebok jacket, combats and a pair of Nike trainers, he sat cross-legged on the bare floor of the flat like some kind of emaciated Buddha. His skin had already suffered the first onslaught of pubescent acne; spots clustered on his cheeks, chin and forehead like a virulent rash. The redness was a marked contrast to the pallor of his flesh. Here and there hardened crusts of blood had formed, the result of Brown's insistence on picking the heads from the most troublesome of the blemishes. Opposite hi...
ilonnaa