Chapter 17

In his pocket, his phone buzzed. When he hit the main road, he slowed to a brisk walk, and fumbled for it. Jason. Finally.

Wat the fuck did u do now?

Psychic twat.

Shane pocketed the phone, and kept walking, head down and boots fast on the wet pavement. It was four miles to Jason’s flat, and he had no money for a bus, but fuck it. It would clear his head, maybe, or throw Dad off. There were back roads he could use, country lanes and little cut-throughs Dad wouldn’t be able to follow in the Land Rover. And it was a better option than going home right now.

Better option than going home ever, maybe. 8

It was dark and raining, so Shane noticed the car that slowed by the shimmer of its headlights, and hunched his shoulders, ready for some nosy berk offering him a lift—or worse, some creepy weirdo offering him a lift—but halted in his tracks when the car ground to a halt and a very familiar voice yelled, “Oi! Twat!”

Shane paused.

“Just get in the fucking car, you tart.”