Won't Get Fooled Again (St. Cross #2)

Prologue: Narrow Escape

The yellow toy candy egg that was perched on the shabby chest of drawers wobbled with every foot stomp from outside. It stared at him. Mocked him. Forced him back to a life he'd tried escaping.

Pacing the dishevelled bedroom in his fifth-floor flat, Callum scraped his hair back and tied it into a messy topknot. With nothing more than a pull-out bed and a wardrobe, the space was so small that his uneasy strides took him full circle. This bloke cannot get here quick enough.

He had to swat away the beads of sweat sprinkling his bottom lip with the ball of his thumb—his fingers were useless with trembling. He wiped his hands down his ripped jeans then rubbed his palms together, needing his hands back at full function. Get a fucking grip. It'll all be over in a minute. Adrenaline had him jumping on the spot and the crash of his heart pained his chest with every energetic leap.

Fuck. All. This. Shit.

Deep thuds from above and below pounded louder, like a herd of fucking elephants were marching down the communal stairway opposite his single occupancy. Why can't these people use the damn fucking lifts?

Catching his reflection in the smeared mirror hanging on the wardrobe by one rusty nail, Callum paused. Not for thought—more for context. He glanced away just as quickly. The clothes strewn about the room covered every inch of the grey tiled carpet and his fraying rucksack propped up by the door was ready and waiting for his swift exit. His stomach growled, which temporarily masked the heavy stomps from outside. At least after this, he'd have a bit of dough and could buy a decent meal. He'd had enough of the tinned crap from the food bank.

The candy egg caught his eye again. Just one? No one would know. Might take the edge off.

Fuck. He needed gloves. He ransacked the flat—every room, every drawer, every cupboard, under every discarded item of clothing—stopping in the living area for composure. He checked in his stone-washed-jeans pockets, a last resort. Come on! Snatching his bag, he then ripped open the zip with trembling fingers. He hung it upside down over the once-red fabric sofa that was now stained with varying amounts of he didn't want to know what. Nothing of interest fell out. Just the two throwaway phones. He checked the display on one, then switched it off, smacked it against his leg to release the SIM card and stamped on it with his steel-toe-capped boot.

The front door rattled on its hinges and Callum's heart leapt into his throat along with a sizeable amount of bile. He peered through to his bedroom just in time to witness the plastic egg falling from the chest of drawers and being captured within the soft cotton of a tattered jumper. Bollocks. He couldn't touch it. He couldn't. Not without the damn gloves.

Bang, bang, bang. Knuckles rapped the front door, drilling through Callum's temple and whatever resolve he might still have had left. Thank fuck.

Pulling himself together, he trampled over the clutter to flick the latch up, making the clang ricochet off the oppressive walls. He nudged open the door just enough to fit his face through the gap.

An Indian man stared back at him, eyes wide. "Gotta get out, son. Fire."

"What?" Callum clung onto the door, unwilling to open it farther.

"Leave everything. It's spreading." The man, Callum suddenly recalled, lived three doors down from him in one of the larger flats. This was the longest conversation they'd ever had—Callum had become a bit of a recluse.

As his grip released, the door drifted open wider to reveal a horde of families rushing down the fire escape steps opposite. All panic-stricken. No forming an orderly queue. His neighbours halted up ahead by the stairwell—four young girls all clinging to their mum's skirt, glaring in frustration as the woman yelled something to him in her mother tongue.