Читать книгу Born Scared - Kevin Brooks - Страница 9

The Santa in the passenger seat of the stolen Land Rover pulled down his stringy white beard and cursed again as he scratched his unshaven chin.

‘This is killing me,’ he said, flicking angrily at the beard. ‘It feels like it’s made of asbestos or something.’

‘Put it back on,’ the Santa in the driver’s seat told him.

‘I don’t see why –’

‘Put it back on.’

The driver’s voice was calm and measured, but there was a chilling edge to it that his companion knew better than to ignore. He’d seen at first hand what his partner could do to people who didn’t take him seriously, and although they were partners – of a kind, at least – he knew that didn’t make any difference. Partner or not, if the man sitting beside him wanted to hurt him, he wouldn’t think twice about doing it.

‘I was only saying,’ he muttered, pulling the elasticated beard back up and refixing it to his face.

‘Yeah, well don’t, okay?’

The Santa in the passenger seat shrugged sulkily then turned away and gazed out of the window.

It was 11.42 a.m.

They were taking the back way to the village, driving across the moors, and the Santa in the passenger seat knew this area like the back of his hand. He used to come up here with his friends when he was a kid, happily ignoring the KEEP OUT! MILITARY FIRING RANGE warning signs to search for anything the army had left behind after their manoeuvres the night before – spent rifle shells, burnt-out flares, even live ammunition, if you were lucky. He knew that on a clear day you could see for miles up here, all the way across to the distant Hambleton Hills, but today the snow was so thick and heavy that visibility was practically nil. The raw moorland wind was blowing so fiercely that great sheets of snow were gusting horizontally across the desolate landscape, and he could feel the car struggling to stay in a straight line.

As he rested his head against the cold glass of the window, he wondered once again what he was doing here. Why do you keep getting yourself into these things? he asked himself. I mean, what’s your problem? What’s so difficult about saying no?

His name was Leonard Dacre. Most people called him Dake.

The driver’s name was Carl Jenner.

‘When this is all over,’ Jenner said, breaking the silence, ‘you can go out and buy yourself the most expensive Santa Claus costume in the world.’ He glanced at Dake. ‘Solid gold buttons, silk trousers, a snakeskin belt . . .’

‘A beard made from polar bear fur . . .’

‘Yeah.’

The two men grinned at each other, and the Land Rover drove on through the snow.