Hutson Shaun - Compulsion.pdf

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Compulsion
by
Shaun Hutson
Also by Shaun Hutson
SLUGS
SPAWN
ERE BUS
SHADOWS
BREEDING GROUND
DEATH DAY
RELICS
VICTIMS
ASSASSIN
NEMESIS
RENEGADES
CAPTIVES
HEATHEN
DEADHEAD
WHITE GHOST
Page 1
 
LUCY’S CHILD
STOLEN ANGELS
KNIFE EDGE
PURITY
WARHOL’S PROPHECY
EXIT WOUNDS
SHAUN HUTSON
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 Britainby Mackays of Chatham plc,Chatham,Kent
This book is dedicated to Graeme Sayer and Callum Hughes With thanks
Page 2
 
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 towardsDee , 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 inNew York and to Margaret in Lindy’s inTimes Square .
We shall return.
A quick thanks to Cineworld inMilton Keynes where I now seem to spend most of my waking hours.
Page 3
 
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
lingLiverpool 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
Page 4
 
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.
Page 5
 

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