Chapter 1 THE DRIFTER
“Why ’ere, the ass-end of nowhere, fur’fuck’s sake, bro?” Brighty shuffled from foot to foot, blowing warmth into his hands despite the ball-sweating warmth of the early November dusk. “I ’ate Wales, me.” He looked at his phone. “And it’s getting on for tea. I wants me some grub. Fuck. We godda drive back home yet.”
Stood next to him in the wreck of a backyard that even offered a thrown-out settee to kick back on, Drift snorted a smile, then nudged into him. “Shut it, asswipe.”
Brighty and his cockney-born twang couldn’t have stood out any worse, and the scowl that came their way over the garden fence from Mrs Old As God’s Dog next door earned her the V off him. Muttering, she turned away for her conservatory with all its hanging baskets lined in a neat row, no doubt on about noise, parties next door, and kids from out of town that looked too young to be pissing beer up the wall. Drift winced. He doubted she opted for that precise word choice: this part of the Welsh neighbourhood as a whole was pretty decent. But she was wrong. Mostly. At twelve years old, Brighty was too young, but he wasn’t pissed up or peeing against a wall. That grief Drift didn’t need. It was hard enough to turn Brighty’s nose away from the back door that led into the house and how weed already had other kids on spin the smoking bong at four in the afternoon.
“I bet the cow comes over and tries to grass me up.” Brighty wiped at his nose and kept shifting about, not helping the whole image of him looking like he needed to piss up something as they stood by the back gate. “Or worse, she calls the rozzers.”
Pushing through the group of late teens by the patio door, a lad more Drift’s age at seventeen looked their way, then came over. “Wales,” Drift said under his breath before digging his hands in his jacket. “Coppers don’t stop frottin’ their bed sheets until twelve. Now shut it and stay sharp.”
The young lad stopped by them and offered a fist bump Drift’s way. “Dain’t mean to keep you waiting, lads. Name’s Pick, as in, well, lock pick.” A smug grin. “The best around here too.”
Yeah, Drift got it. A set of lock picks and a tension wrench didn’t hang too discretely from a chain at Pick’s side. Smart. Real smart naming himself via “profession” and carrying tools of the trade around his neck. Drift buried a wince. What did that say about his own nickname…?
The redness going on around Pick’s nose and how he kept sniffing called out another bad habit altogether, though, and the offer of a roll up came his way after Drift returned the fist-bump, and Drift gave a sniff himself. Brighty grinned and went to grab the spliff, but Drift clipped him up the ear, then took the spliff and pocketed it.
“S’okay,” Drift said eventually. “Not exactly a normal piss-stop here anyway, mate.”
Pick smirked, looking Drift up and down. “Damn weird, y’know? I pictured Jackson’s London lot… older. Tougher. Less—” He pointed at Drift’s throat, the leather collar with a pentagram charm, his wrist and its matching rope bracelet, then ultimately, his face. “—dark emo with a slice of Kpop.” He tilted his head. “You male or female under all that lot, because… damn. It’s….” A frown. “It’s confusing the fuck out of my dick, and I don’t like it.”
Drift wore a black gothic punk skirt over his punk large eyelet webbing décor trousers, and it no doubt didn’t help Pick’s… confusion. But that racist shit over tying androgyny purely to his own echo of Korean heritage?
As Brighty threw an oh fuck look his way, Drift smiled… sweetly enough, touched a hand to heart… kissed distractedly at his fingertips, then offered a wink Pick’s way. “I stick out on the street like an ex-con with a sore dick, then that’s Jackson recruiting the wrong talent, ain’t it now, mate? I mean, that would be as bad as you selling drugs from your mother’s house: all sore dick and… noticeable.”
Pick’s intrusive smile faded, completely dropped before he turned back and gave a sharp whistle over the thumbing beat from inside the house.
Ah. The house being owned by his mother had been a guess, but it hit a nerve, and Drift sniffed, burying a smile as a girl by the door passed his whistle on with a more flute-like tone back through the kitchen. Christ, if this was the best in Wales…. After a moment, another kid came out, carrying a black case big enough to fit a body or two in.
Pick took it off him, making a point of waiting for them to be left alone again before offering it over to Drift. Brighty took it instead, all cold seemingly dropped as he carefully put the case on the floor and started to open it up. For a moment he paused, almost expecting a comment off Pick about the case being put on the floor—because one should have really come—but none did, and Drift…
Oh. This shit really was a waste of time.
Brighty eased the lid open, and Pick snorted. “Fuck me,” he said. “You pussies really did come all the way from London for just a… cello.”
Brighty glanced up. “It’s a Leonardt, dick. It ain’t no normal cello.” But Drift had already seen it without the warning scratch that Brighty gave to the case. That wasn’t no Leonardt cello there, and now Drift was pissed off.
Pick sniffed, his look fast and hard between them. “Whatever.” He stayed focused on Brighty. “We good?”
Brighty shut the case lid and stood, saying nothing.
“Yeah,” said Drift. “We’re good.” Only they weren’t, but Pick nodded, happy, and such a cocky shine came to his eyes that called he knew the cello was fake. Drift could have excused him if he hadn’t, but because he did know….
Drift looked at Brighty. “Lend me your phone, bro?” He never carried one for a reason, just like he’d not been soft enough to give Pick their names.
Brighty shifted and passed him the cello first, phone last, and Drift snorted a smile seeing his version of prioritising even with the cello being a fake. Giving him a nod, then thumbing through for something, Drift eventually shifted closer to Pick. “Where’s this place?”
“The Swann Inn?” Pick looked a little closer. “Bit out of the way.” He took the phone. “This one’s closer if you’re looking to stay the night.”
He handed it back to Drift with Google Maps giving him directions as Brighty buried a smile Drift’s way.
“Thanks.” Drift flicked a look up to Mrs Old As God’s Dog next door. Through the window, she stood talking on the phone, her scowl fixed Pick’s way, his too. “That’s us gone.” If she’d seen what he’d done to Pick, she didn’t call it out.
“Ignore the old cow.” Pick didn’t look back. “The police got sick of her calls. They don’t bother us anymore.” He glanced back at Drift. “Scare easily, don’t ya, Panic at the Kpop Disco?”
Drift winked his way, then shouldered the cello into a more comfortable position and handed Brighty his phone. “You ain’t the one holding the hot goods in case the rozzers do stop frotting their pillows.”
Pick smirked, then wiped at his nose and turned away. “Fuck off back to London, then. And tell Jackson that one’s on us. There’ll be more when he needs it. At a reduced crew-sharing price, of course.” He waved as he walked off.
Drift held the gate and let Brighty slip under his arm before shutting it behind them. Catching a bush off to his left, Drift tossed the cello into it as he passed by, and the look of sadness hitting Brighty’s eyes had Drift pulling him in and roughing a brief kiss at his head. “We’ll get our hands on one for you soon, mate.”
He shrugged Drift away and tried to brush the disappointment off as easily too. But he wasn’t as tough as he sounded or tried to look under those large layers of clothes, but then hit a street kid at the core, none of their kind were. They just learned to hide it better in the drugs as they got older.
“C’mon,” Drift said gently, nodding over to an old blue Ford. His tap on the window had the central lock clicking off before he opened the door for Brighty to get in.
“I’m ridin’ shotgun, D.” A sniff came his way off Brighty, another wipe at a runny nose. That goddamn always runny nose. “Yo ’ad it ’ere.”
“Get in there, asswipe.” Drift pushed him in the back and shut the door with a smirk before claiming his spot, passenger side.
“Cello was a dud, huh?” Twenty-five and almost swamping the driving seat, Leon started the car. “Jackson said it looked too good to be kosher.”
Drift took off his choker and black bracelet and tossed them in the glove box before taking a rag to his black eyeliner and scrubbing it off. Then he eased his ass up and sorted through for two items out of his back pocket that he’d… acquired. “Damn shame,” he mumbled. “Would’ve been a cracking source if the offer had been legit.” The Leonardt was worth over thirteen grand, but Jackson, he wouldn’t ever sell and feed it on through the streets. He’d sell Drift’s body parts on before any musical instrument.
Giving a sigh, Drift counted the wad of notes, yet kept his eye on the spliff more. After a moment, he handed the notes to Leon but kept the spliff for himself and started to light up.
Brighty filled the gap between them and let out a hard chuckle. “Fuck. Pick’s gonna be pissed being fed from.” He took the money and eyed it up. “How the fuck do yo manage to feed money free like that and not take the wallet, D?”
“Skill,” mumbled Leon, and he took the spliff off Drift with a hard look and tossed it out the window. Drift went to get out, but Leon grabbed his arm.
“Go near that shit on a job, I’m breaking a finger for each drag you take. And that’s Jackson talkin’, not me. Got it?”
Drift held his look, then shook out of the grip and moodily focused back outside, arms folded.
Habits… bad for the soul. They got you noticed. Made you fuck up. He hated how everyone of Jackson’s lot always jumped like a condom onto his dick to remind him. It’s why he never stayed with one crew in London for long. People got too comfortable, took liberties that weren’t there’s to take.
A nod, Leon stole the money off Brighty. “Gimme that.” He started thumbing through it, counting out the fives, tens, and fifties. “Fucking slow-as-shit pusher,” he mumbled. “Bloody drug dealers are easy pickings out here.” He pocketed it. “That’ll at least pay our wage loss for Jackson if nowt else. Jackson’ll handle the rest.”
Drift shifted to slip his seatbelt on, just giving a nod. He’d fed off a bad deal, job done. The rest was handled by those higher up in the chain, and with pulling this shit over a potential hit on a cello like this, Jackson would be handling it himself. He almost, almost felt sorry for Pick and his lot.
Leon started the engine, but caught in the rear-view mirror, Pick’s back gate came open, and Drift—
“Fuck.”
Heart flatlining, he ducked down in his seat.
“Jesus Christ ,” mumbled Leon in the same breath, and he started the engine, turning the key so quietly, looking ready to floor the accelerator. “What… why the fuck is bitch-faced Freak here?” A hard frown came Drift’s way as if he knew the answer.
Ava.
Damn his soul to hell, which it had been long ago, Drift ignored that look and forced himself to focus on the wing mirror.
Two young women stood sorting through their phones, but at nineteen, it was Ava, all her Japanese beauty, that came his way in the look she sent the Ford’s way, then dismissed it in the next. Heat mixed with the need to claw at his skin and tear it off him came on the half smile she’d sent his way, almost as if she knew he was here.
Anger more than anything else hitting his head, Drift waited for Ava to turn away with the other girl before he pushed out. He knew the call when he saw it.
“Hey.” Leon leaned over and caught the door, stopping him from shutting it. “Orders are clear. I get you here and back. No fucking drifting.” His look hardened. “You stay the fuck away from Freak and the kind of drug she is.”
“Wait— what ?” Eyes widening, Brighty snapped his head around. “She’s here, with us?”
Leon ignored him and tugged out his phone, already thumbing buttons. “Or do I call West, hm?” He flicked a look at Drift. “Tell her you’re out playing poison dick chase with psycho bitch face again?”
“Fucking…” Cunt . He bit back that last bit and reached over and covered Leon’s phone. “You don’t get it, dick,” he said flatly. “It’s daylight, outside of London, and she’s just come out of the same backyard we were in. There’s no coincidence with that bitch, so I need to know why she’s working the same party we are and why she’s playing calling card my way. Otherwise we could just be walking trouble back to Jackson’s if I don’t answer her dog whistle, and I ain’t doin’ that to him again.”
Leon looked ahead, made a point of focusing on the way ahead, not back where Drift needed to go. “She’s just fucking with your head.” He slipped his phone away, then he looked at Drift. “And you, little bro, you let her. Every. Fucking. Time.”
Drift eased out of the car and slammed the door shut. That wasn’t it. Leon didn’t get it. But why should he? There were street crew wars during the day, but all differences came to a stop when it came to them and facing the Night-walkers and… Ava. Most wouldn’t face her. They stayed in the daylight, letting Ava and hers put them to bed come ten pm. Drift wouldn’t ever let Ava put him to bed again, not with how… ill she played in and out of the covers.
Swearing under his breath, he opened the door again and leaned down. After touching distractedly at his heart, he kissed at his fingertips. “An hour, no more, I promise, big bro.”
Leon went to bite something out, then gave a rough sigh and looked away. “Petrol station we passed on the way in. Be there in an hour.” He looked his way as he shifted into gear. “That cunt decides to really play with you, it won’t matter what part of the bastard country we’re in anyway. She’ll find us.”
Yeah, Drift knew that. He shut the door, then a brief close of eye, he stayed low for a moment, keeping behind the car as Ava turned the corner at the end of the street with her friend, one he hadn’t seen before. Maybe that was a Welsh Night-walker sister showing her around? Bloody animals no matter the blood. But they both still had their phones in hand and kept to the footpath. So bloody innocent and normal to anyone walking by, only….
An odd taste stained the back of his throat, almost making him choke.
He hated how she poured the poison, and he followed and… drank from it.
His look went to the house next to Mrs Old as God’s Dog, more the drainpipe hugging into the side of her home. Drift found footing on the fence and landed in the back garden a moment later. The drainpipe gave him quick access to the rooftop, and he kept it low and fast from there. Houses were packed tightly together, leaving enough space to easily shift from one rooftop to another without losing his nuts in the process. Little safety took the streets wherever it took someone, so he’d learned long ago to take it to the rooftops, away from trouble.
Rooftops kept you safe. Drugs helped you forget why. Fuck. He’d picked the spliff up as well.
Ava worked through two more streets with her Welsh sister, both with their heads down and looking like they played text matches with each other. But then they came to a stop almost in the same dead quiet, in a more middleclass close, their looks going to the detached house sat closest to a park.
Drift shifted his look between the park, the safety of the detached home… the couple taking time out in the back garden.
How Ava turned Drift’s way.
Smiled.
Winked.
Shit.
She really was in the mood to play….