Work In Progress

This is from my novel ”In The Dark”. I am editing it through pro writing aid. Putting it on repeats, I am scared of how much I use the same phrase.

CHAPTER THREE

Clawing at the scab on his arm, causing crimson droplets to trickle down, the pain doesn’t bother him. Needle marks scratch, tracking lower to escape a startled existence.

There isn’t any fight left in him. The adult acquaintances, he thought he could believe in, grinding him down into waxen dust. I am not convinced his information is credible. Raised in the depths of the neglected council estate, he is simply surviving.

Gangs in Slough with a stranglehold over the vulnerable. In different regions of the UK, they forge bloodied links in the chain of destruction. If his dealers found him out, their ability to destroy his family is a genuine threat. Who is he, but a nameless addict in a fragmented country desensitised to death?

Finding justice; it is my only excuse.

Against the flaking paint, his life is abstracted in grey. ‘I can’t do it, it makes me a snitch’

‘Spend time with drug addicts and it rubs off. What about your sister? How long before she crosses county lines? Or worse?’

Repugnant air strangles as he twists to the window. He vigorously shakes. A panicked canary trapped in a cage. As he looks through me, his hidden language betrays a sense of vigilance, as if he’s ready to react to any potential danger.

‘Please Scott, you telephoned me. It must have been important.’

His tone wavers between a base and a sigh he finally spills all of his guts. ‘Big T, I get it after college. I take it to some seaside town.’

‘Where is the drop?’

Not even looking in my direction, he peers into the abyss.

‘If it helps.’ I add to the notes from my handbag. He lunges at the mound of plastic. There is sufficient colour to change his mind. Without speaking, he stuffs it in his tracksuit.

‘St Ives …’ Picking at a tobacco stained fingernail, he is a lost boy. ‘This fancy cafe, on the seafront.’

‘I need a name.’

‘Some joint that serves pasta.’

‘How do you recognise them?’

‘Stupid things. He wore a pink carnation once. It changes.’

Resembling a figure of a paper man, his torso sinks into the interior of his seat. I reach forward to stop his trembling hands.

My brother sits at the table behind; he is never far away.

‘Is there anything else? It might seem small to you.’

‘It was afterwards. I was playing the slots. Georgie was emptying them. Someone old girl grabbed him.’

‘This woman? Was she my age, older?’

‘Posh cow. Didn’t want to be involved, kept me head down. She’s fucking mental.’

His fingers instinctively rise towards his ear, where an incessant itch persists. It is as though the faint rustle of his own thoughts was attempting to silence him.

‘White shirt, now red, my bloody nose, sleeping, you’re on your tippy toes, creeping like nobody knows’, a repeating rap from Billie Eilish, and he instantly answered his mobile. ‘Yea, yea, alright, I hear ya.’

Fear covers his cheeks in a powdered mask as he scrapes the chair. He doesn’t utter another word, just crashes out of the room. Stopping in the doorway, he scuffs the tiles with his trainers. About to talk, he disappears into the dark.