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Trevor
brushed his brown hair over his eyes and round his head
in a swirl, looking at himself critically in the mirror.
The black T-shirt bought at the local chain store had
been worth skimping his pocket money; it teamed well with
the black jeans and he'd be hard to see in the dark.
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He
could hear his mother undressing in her cold bedroom,
everything white in there, furniture, bedclothes, curtains
and the walls; even her skin; only the carpet a pale grey.
Momentarily he imagined it spattered with blood, rich
and red, but he shook the thought out of his mind.
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Dad
wouldn't bother him, hiding away in his home office, his
caved-in figure hunched over those interminable sums in
great hefty ledgers, the whisky on the desk beside him.
When he tired of it all, at two or three in the morning,
he'd fling himself on the divan in there and snore until
breakfast.
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Poor
bloody Barry would be asleep too, curled up like a baby
hedgehog. Probably pissed himself already. Out there,
washing his sheet every morning, standing on a box in
the laundry, frantic to get it out on the line, standing
in the wheelbarrow, before Mum gets up. Still, as Mum
says, at four years old you're not a baby. You're not
supposed to wet your bed.
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The
window opened wide silently, much better since he oiled
the hinges last week. Outside, the profusion of unpruned
roses in Mrs. Truslove's garden scented the cool Spring
evening. He stood for a while in the protection of the
shrubs in his own garden, practising until he could remain
completely motionless for at least ten minutes, his breath
coming so slow and even that it scarcely moved the muscles
of his chest.
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He'd
spent many months learning this trick. At first, he'd
felt dizzy; the breaths too short and shallow. He smiled,
remembering the praise he'd earned for paying attention
in Chapel as well as in class, when he'd been merely perfecting
this trick, hearing not a word of the service.
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He
moved at last, bare feet making no sound on the gravel.
His mother's window tightly screened, as he'd expected,
made him sneer. Her chest almost flat, rib bones sticking
out like a starving horse, she hadn't the sort of body
you'd expect in a mother. No wonder Dad slept in his home
office; it must be like hugging a bag of bones.
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Outside
in the street, he passed the Doyle's house. Better to
go there later, the household seemed to stay active longer
at night with Mr Doyle pecking away at the piano and uncannily,
coming to the window at the slightest noise in the garden.
Another rotten old schoolteacher, he fancied himself as
a composer. As though those horrible sounds could ever
be music!
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He
passed Mrs. Truslove's gate. Unoiled for years, it creaked.
Lightly vaulting the fence further down, creeping down
the side of the house, a lighted window told him Mrs.
Cooper and Betty might be getting ready for bed. They'd
drawn the curtains, but not very efficiently, the blind
still rolled at the top of the window, leaving a triangular
chink at the bottom, enough for a good look if he stood
behind the lavender bush near the wall.
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Betty,
already undressed, sat on her bed, playing with her toy
panda. She looked lumpier than ever in the thick pyjamas
and he could see the pattern of clowns and elephants on
the pink material. Her scanty, gingery hair, wet from
the shower, lying in slimy yellow strands across her yellow
scalp.
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