Chapter 3

"I can't believe you gave that bitch a perfect opportunity to apologize and she just stood there staring at her feet," Dylan said, shaking his head. Since this was the third time he'd bought it up, Caleb figured he was pretty mad about it. The fact he was so enraged on Caleb's behalf was either sweet or creepy, depending on how you looked at it. 

"I know right," Caleb said, rolling his eyes. "I guess you were right about her."

"I'm always right," Dylan teased, wrinkling up his nose. "But trust me, when she sees what you do to people who don't pay up, she'll be begging you to forgive her."

Caleb scoffed. "You clearly don't know Alice very well."

"Pfft," Dylan waved his arms. "They are all the same."

 "What are we going to do to Miss Simmons?" Caleb asked.

"Nothing to her directly. That could land us in trouble. We go after her son," Dylan said, nodding to himself as he explained his plan.

"We buy up a load of whatever poison he pumps into himself," Dylan said, puckering his lips in disgust at the thought of drug use. 

"M-cat, mostly," Caleb confirmed. 

"Right, and we deliberately leave it on display next time he texts you to buy drugs. Being a scummy drug addict, he won't be able to resist stealing it-"

"Can you stop being so disparaging about my customers," Caleb interrupted. "My Mum is one of those scummy drug users."

"Right," Dylan turned to Caleb. "I'm sorry."

Caleb shrugged. He appreciated the apology but could tell by Dylan's face he didn't think much of his mother. 

'Must be nice to have the perfect, posh, God-fearing family,' Caleb thought.

"So then what?" Caleb asked.

"Then we can do whatever we want to him. We'll have the perfect excuse. He won't be able to grass you up, and everyone will fear you," Dylan smiled.

"Yeah, specifically though?" Caleb pressed. He preferred having a fully fleshed-out plan than going off half-cocked. 

"We'll torture him," Dylan revealed with a grin.

"That isn't specific..." Caleb sighed.

"Fine," Dylan said. "We cut some of his fingers off."

Caleb felt himself recoil at the suggestion. 

"We're teenager drug runners, not the Mafia," he pointed out.

"So? What's the difference between you and a Mafia boss?" Dylan asked.

"Erm... the fact I'm not a Mafia boss?" Caleb snickered.

Dylan stopped walking and stepped into Caleb's path, almost tripping him up.

"There is no difference," Dylan announced, theatrically waving his arms. "Aside from your age. You can do anything they can do."

"If you say so," Caleb shrugged.

He hated Miss Simmons with a burning passion, but could he torture her child as revenge? Honestly, he wasn't as sure as Dylan appeared to be.

"Come on," Dylan pulled him by the arm in the direction of the town centre. "Let's get the cash together."

"Now?" Caleb cried. "You want to do this right now?" 

"No time like the present," Dylan replied with far too much cheer considering they were talking about torturing someone.

He followed his mate with less vigour, dragging his feet as they made their way to the cashpoint. 

"Text your dealer you need a grands worth of that M-cat stuff," Dylan demanded.

"A grand!" Caleb cried. "Where are we going to get a grand?"

"From my bank account," Dylan replied. He pulled his wallet from his pocket and began pulling out cards. They all had his name across the middle, just in different variations; D. Harris, Dylan Harris, DG Harris.

"Why do you have so many cards?" Caleb frowned. The only logical explanation was criminal activity of some sort. Caleb wasn't entirely sure what sort, however.

"For situations where I need a large amount of cash fast, like this one," he said, passing Caleb the first wad. He stuck in anther card, keyed in the pin and waited for the next lot.

"How do you remember four pins?" Caleb asked. "I can barely remember one."

"Well, I don' believe that for a second," Dylan smiled, passing over three hundred more. The fresh, crisp notes slipped about in Caleb's hands, almost dropping onto the floor where they'd quickly scatter into the wind. He hated the new plastic notes. What was so wrong with the old paper ones?

"Are you sure you want to throw all this money away?" Caleb asked, feeling guilty about the prospect of wasting his mate’s money on revenge.

"Come here," Dylan pulled Caleb by the arm, shoving him toward the ATM screen.

"Seventy-five grand!" Caleb cried.

"Announce it a bit louder," Dylan teased. "There's a couple of people over that hill who didn't quite hear you."

Caleb looked about to find people were indeed staring. A young couple with a baby and an old man. He wasn't worried.

"And that's just one account," Caleb said, adjusting his volume. He couldn't quite believe his eyes.

"There's just over a quarter of a million altogether," Dylan boasted.

"Where'd you get it?" Caleb wanted to know. Was desperate to know.

"That would be telling," Dylan teased with a smile. 

"Don't you trust me?" Caleb asked. It was hypocritical, considering he didn't entirely trust Dylan. Not yet. Not after knowing him only a few weeks. He was too mysterious to fully trust, the money being just one more cause for alarm in a long list. 

His parents were another thing. They were never home. Every time Caleb had been to Dylan's house, it looked like a show home, and they had this weird maid who did nothing but clean the entire time despite the spotless condition of the house.

Caleb couldn't put his finger on why, but something about Dylan's home life gave him the creeps.

'Rich people,' he thought with a shudder. 'People call my family scum, but at least there's love in our home.'

"So?" Dylan asked, passing Caleb the rest of the money. "Where does this drug dealer live?"

"Not far from where you live," Caleb revealed. "It's that three-story house on the corner of Gladwell and Crescent.

The pair walked the rest of the way in silence. Caleb was too distracted by the vast sum of money to think up new topics of conversation. He didn't want to harp on about it too much, however, and lead Dylan to believe he was only interested in his money.

Scotty had a nice house. Well, nice for a drug dealer. Caleb was vaguely aware the guy had another job—a day job—but had no recollection of what it was. He figured it had to be something too boring to waste brain space on.

Dylan rang the bell and smiled when Scottie's kid answered. The young lad had to be around twelve and was an absolute little fucker. He'd just started at middle school and was already getting a reputation. Not quite as bad as Caleb’s, but still, he wasn't doing badly for his age.

"Alight Caleb," he greeted with a smile. "Who's your mate, he looks like a nonce?" 

"He's alright," Caleb said with a half-smile, letting himself in. 

He found Scotty in the kitchen, leaning over a pair of kitchen scales. He had the same brand at home—the most accurate ones on the market.

"I don't even know if I scrape a grands worth together," Scotty said. He sniffed deeply and wiped his nose before ripping into more little clingfilm baggies and emptying them onto the pile.

"Whatever you got, mate," Caleb assured him. "Whatever you can scrape together will do."

"You're a good lad, Caleb," Scotty said without looking up from his work. "How's your mam?"

"You know," Caleb shrugged. "Same as ever."

"Did I ever tell you I went to school with your mam?" Scotty asked. He had told Caleb. Scotty bought it up every time they met up, and every time Caleb feigned interest out of politeness. He was sure all the drugs had addled Scottie's brain. How he managed to keep down a regular day job was anyone's guess.

"Yeah?" Caleb asked.

"She was a right terror. Even the teachers were scared of her," Scotty laughed.

"I'll remind her of that next time I get in trouble," Caleb said.

"Right," Scotty clapped his hands together, creating a small white cloud. "I'll wrap this lot up for you."

He looked up, noticing Dylan for the first time. The lad was stood in the corner of the kitchen by the door like an awkward statue. 

"Who's your mate?" he asked.

"Oh, sorry," Caleb tutted. "Dylan, Scotty, Scotty, Dylan."

"It's nice to meet you," Dylan said. He meant it politely, but in a drug dealers house, it just sounded creepy.

"Alright, mate," Scotty nodded in his direction.

Dylan smiled and began pacing the kitchen. He ran his finger over the worktop, looking around as he moved slowly around the central breakfast bar.

Caleb could see that look in his eyes. He was planning something.

"All done," Scotty declared. "Just the issue of payment."

Caleb handed him the wad of cash and watched him stuff it into his back pocket.

"Not going to count it?" Dylan asked.

"I trust you," Scotty shrugged.

"Well, see you next time," Caleb said, bumping Scottie's fist before turning to let himself out. 

"Bye, Caleb," the kid said as Caleb walked past. As Dylan walked past he added, "See ya later nonce."

Dylan turned the kid.

"Call me a nonce one more time and I'll cut your little pecker off," he threatened, making a scissor gesture with his left hand. 

The kid recoiled, turning pale.

Once they were outside of the house, Caleb turned to Dylan and pushed him the chest.

"What do you go and do that for, man?" he hissed. "You don't threaten the drug dealers’ kid."

"You don't," Dylan corrected him in a haughty voice. "Come on, let's go see your friend Miss Simmons."

"He hasn't texted me yet," Caleb said. "It'll be a bit weird if I just show up out of the blue."

"I hate waiting," Dylan pouted. "What can we do in the meantime?"

Caleb shrugged. Dylan didn't like doing the 'normal people' stuff that he did with his other mates. He didn't enjoy playing football, drinking, flirting with the girls or getting high and stuffing his face with crisps. He didn't even like watching TV. All he ever wanted to do was ‘chill’ and by chill he meant talk. The topics of conversation were never relaxed, either, as the word chill would suggest. It was always something to do with mental damage, trauma, and internalised pain. Caleb found it interesting, but at the same time, felt like he was being psychoanalysed.

"Let's throw rocks at Alice's house," Dylan suggested out of the blue.

Caleb shrugged.

"Yeah, why not?"