Burn The Dead: Riot: Book Three

Chapter 1

1

Where the hell are my trainers?

Wendy’s put them somewhere; I just know it. I drop to the floor and peek under the bed. All I see are Harry’s toys, scattered across the carpet like a playpen. Cars, Spider-Man figures; he hasn’t played with these in years.

“Wendy!” I call out as I stand, frowning as if it can’t possibly be my fault. “Where’ve you put my white trainers?”

She doesn’t answer. Typical.

I step out of my bedroom. “Wendy!” I shout out to the entire house.

“Shut the f**k up, Alfie!” Phil shouts from his bedroom, trying to sleep off another afternoon of cider, no doubt. Drunken bald prick! Not the greatest of foster dads, but at least he’s too wasted to hit me. He can try his luck—if he fancies another black eye.

I hear Wendy walk up the stairs, her footsteps lighter than usual, clearly avoiding pissing off the old man. Why she hasn’t left him already is beyond me. It’s not like he’s flush with cash or anything. He’s just another worthless sponger, happy to collect his payment for being a foster parent. Thank God for Wendy. If it weren’t for her, I’d probably be sleeping in the cupboard under the stairs.

“Which trainers?” she asks, her voice a little quieter.

“The white ones,” I reply as she follows me into my bedroom.

She opens the wardrobe doors. “All your trainers are white, Alfie. You’ll have to be more specific. New? Old? Dirty ones?”

“I’ve already looked in there,” I tell her, quickly closing the doors after her. That’s the last place I want her snooping through. She’s quicker than a sniffer dog at finding my hidden s**t. “I’ve looked everywhere. Please tell me that jackass hasn’t sold them on eBay.”

Wendy turns to me, rolling her eyes. “Don’t be silly. Phil wouldn’t do something like that.” I love the way she knows exactly who the jackass is. “They’re here somewhere.”

“Well, I need them. They’re my lucky ones.”

“Why?” she asks, kneeling down to look under the bed. “Thinking about buying a lottery ticket?”

“No. It’s because Swansea have won every game when I’ve had them on—and I ain’t risking it today.”

“That’s ridiculous, boy,” she snorts, scanning the rest of the room. “You’re being superstitious.”

I slip on my Swansea jersey, and then check out my new haircut in the mirror. It’s a little shorter than I like it, but an Afro just doesn’t go down well in Swansea. “It’s important, Wendy. It’s the League Cup Semi-Final. I can’t afford to f**k it up.”

Wendy turns to me, a sharp scowl on her brow. “Watch your language, Alfie. This is your home—not some house party with your friends.”

“Sorry. It just slipped out. I’m just panicking. It won’t happen again.”

I hate swearing in front of her, but when you live under the same roof as two loudmouth foster sisters, a bratty nine-year-old, and an alcoholic asshole, the words just pop out as easily as breathing.

Before she can tear into me again, she spots something in the corner of the room, by Harry’s bed. “Are those your trainers?”

I see something white poking out, wedged between the wooden headboard and cream wall.

My b****y trainers!

The little s**t, I almost say when I yank them out. “He’s hidden them from me.”

“Don’t be so paranoid. He probably just borrowed them.”

“He’s a child. They’d never fit him in a million years.”

“Look, he’s downstairs watching a film with Rosy. Don’t go arguing with him now. I’ve already had to separate them once this morning. I’ll have a quiet word with him after you’ve left for the game. Okay?”

I sigh loudly, sitting on the bed, slipping on my squashed trainers. “Fine. But make sure you do. He gets away with murder, that kid.”

“Okay—boss,” Wendy says, rubbing the top of my head, screwing up my hair. “I’ll do it later.”

“Watch the hair,” I say with a smile, moving my head away from her hand. “I worked hard on that.”

Walking towards the door, she laughs. “What hair? They barely left any to mess up.”

Wendy disappears out onto the landing, leaving me to do one more check before Ginge gets here. I stand up and look down at my feet.

Trainers? Check

Red board shorts? Check

Swansea jersey? Check

I pat my back pocket. Phone? Check.

Money?

I push the loose coins from the desk into my hand and pour them into the left pocket. There’s about ten, twelve quid. It’ll have to do.

Ticket?

Pulling the drawer open, I take out the ticket. Crazed butterflies fill my stomach when I see the words Swansea vs. Cardiff written across the grey and red card. Last year was a complete washout. But 2009 is our year! I know I say that every year, but this time is different. This time, I can feel it in my bones. “You’re going down, you Cardiff fuckers!” I say, kissing the ticket hard.

“I heard that,” Wendy says from the landing.

I go to the doorway and watch her walk down the stairs, carrying a basket of washing. “Sorry,” I say, as she disappears out of sight. I give the landing a quick scan and then close the door.

Opening the wardrobe doors, I reach up onto the top shelf and pull down the shoebox. I lift the lid off and stare at its contents for a minute.

Just leave it there, Alfie. You don’t need it.

Another thirty seconds pass before I take out the small flick-knife, and quickly slip it into my pocket.