Chapter One.

TAP: To connect into secretly so as to receive the message or signal being transmitted.

That constant tap, tap, tap of fingertips on his thigh. Never stopping. Morse code? Some secret signal to someone else? Faster. Harder. Unseen by the other kids walking past in the school corridor.

Just another weirdo.

The school was full of them. Kids who just didn't seem to fit in. Not even in their own strange minds. Not even in their imaginations and dreams.

Normal.

Nothing out of place. Everything running smoothly.

Just as it should be.

'And so I told him to fuck off...' and the voice tails off, masked my giggling girls in skirts too short and too much makeup and too much mouth. The popular girls. The ones with long spray-tanned legs and slender feet. The ones who arrived at school in their own cars, or dropped off by parents, or people who were paid small amounts of money to do the job for the parents. Never on the school bus. Never. Not those sort of girls.

Tap, tap, tap...

'Did you do the essay...?' The question wasn't asked of the boy standing there drumming his fingertips on his black skinny jeans. Why would anyone ask him anything? He never spoke.

Three whole months and no one had heard a word out of him except for abusive shouting when he first started. No one bothered trying to talk to him.

He wasn't normal.

Autistic. Someone had called him that. He had just blinked at the fool and carried on with the constant drumming of those fingertips. Fingers which had long fingernails. Painted red.

He wasn't right in the head. Brain damage?

Drugs. He'd been asked that too and his eyes had narrowed and he'd licked his lips which seemed to be pouting slightly, but he'd not answered.

That Special Needs Kid... You know? That new kid. The one who never talks...

'Did you see what he was doing in English?'

'Masturbating! Rubbing himself against the table leg like a dog!'

'You want to keep away from him. He's not right in the head.'

He didn't mind. He was happy for people to avoid him. He was glad they'd stopped talking to him. He had more important things on his mind than having to form fake friendships with people who had minds on levels so far below his own that he could never actually think of anything to say to someone.

No... he wasn't autistic.

No... not always on drugs. Not at school. Not every day. At least once a week he was not high as a kite or spaced out so much that he drooled his way through Math.

That Special Needs Kid. Oh yes. He was that. That was hitting the nail on the head. Hitting it hard. Hitting it so hard that it gave him a headache and a nosebleed. Not that anyone noticed. He'd wipe the blood away with the back of his hand, keep his head down.

Concentrate. Watch and wait.

Can't let it slip by now.

Not after waiting so long.

'Out of the way, freak.' A body banged into him, pushing him into the gap between two rows of lockers. Painted a darker blue than the walls. His had a penis and balls drawn in thick black marker pen. He liked it. He'd put it there himself.

The endless drumming of the fingers stopped as he looked around at who had pushed him. Just another face in the crowd. Nothing to be alarmed about.

But he should have seen it coming! He should have known. He should have avoided physical contact.

Blue and white flooring. Squares. They didn't quite line up properly with the edge. If you looked at it for too long it made it appear that the floor was moving, bucking, upwards, moving, across... undulating, almost breathing. But it wasn't. At least he didn't think it was.

'I know you're watching me.' A hissing voice from his side, standing close, but not quite touching. Not quite that brave. But still stupid.

'Well I am now.' The voice whispered back. Dark eyes blinking. Trapped in that gap between the lockers. The fingers tapping on his thigh again. 'Thank you for the introduction. I was having a problem picking you out from amongst the hundreds of freaks.'

The slightly reddened face had an expression of deep hate. There was a nasty smell. A stink of rotting eggs and decay. The top lip pulled away from yellow teeth, One of the upper front was chipped. 'You can't stop me.' Hand stuffed into the pockets of blue jeans worn with a white Tshirt.

It was like having a discussion with a dead snake. A dead snake with no sense of fashion.

'One step in the wrong direction and you will die.' Tap, tap, tapping... the other hand in a tight fist.

'It will happen so fast that you won't be able to stop me.' Curly yellow hair. It looked like a million threads of spinning noodles on his head. Long sharp nose. Long sharp body. The sort of body that slouches and slides and lives in the dust and cobwebs in the corners, the shadows. No eyebrows. White eyelashes. Eyes so light in colour that they look absent. Deranged. Insane. There were patches of sweat under his arms... a tuft of hair showing under his arm as a hand came out of the denim pocket and rested high up on the top of the dusty lockers. That bit of hair was stared at for a moment. Ugly, dirty and sweaty hair. He could almost see droplets of yellow body fluid dripping from it. A drop of water ran down the red and hot face and dripped off that chiselled jaw and onto the blue and white floor.

'Don't blow a fuse there, Ash.' A flash of straight white teeth.

The blond boy of about sixteen, backed away. 'Don't fuck with me, Sam.'

'Tick, tick, tick... Time's up.' The dark haired boy, the one with the tapping fingers, also about sixteen – at least that's how old he looked. The one who never speaks... except for now; the one with the hair tied back with a bit of red ribbon... the one called Sam, moved away – walked out of the place he'd been standing, fingers still tapping, the other hand still in a fist.

'You can't stop me!' That hiss again... like poisonous vapour in his ear... like it was made of the gasses which came directly from hell... from home.

Sam didn't bother answering. People were beginning to turn and look. Was that the weirdo actually talking to someone? What were they saying? Was there going to be a fight? Did that yellow haired boy, Ash, say something? Who was threatening who? Should they tell someone?

Just text it to a friend.

Send a text... attach a photo of a puppy looking surprised.

BBM it to Jeanne who you will see in about five minutes on the bus going home. It can't wait! Have to do it now... don't bother looking where you're going. Damnit idiot! Get out of the way! This was important! The freak, Sam spoke to Ash! Ash of all people! That stinking trailer trash, white boy actually spoke to and got a reply from Sam Trent the weird kid who never talks! It's urgent news... and did you get that pic of my lunch?

And time moves onwards.

Not far... Just a few hours, but it is Fall and it is getting dark and Sam hasn't returned from school.

Again.

Sam does this sometimes and they don't really worry, but tonight they are standing on the front porch, looking at the grass out front of their single storey home. Painted white.

She is smoking. A woman in her middle forties. Short hair. Like a pixie, but she's got a pretty face. A small face with big dark eyes. She can take the short hair. It looks cute. She's wearing a white blouse which is tucked into bootleg cut jeans. She's a tidy woman. No makeup. A small pink mouth in naturally tanned skin. Nothing fake here. Even her tits are her own. She has white shoes. Lace up and flat. Almost like a nurse would wear, but she's not a nurse.

The man is tall. A foot taller than the woman. He's got short cropped hair, going grey at the sides, going completely on the top and he's given up trying to hide either. He's in a shirt, white with a blue stripe, open at the neck, dark blue chinos... black leather slip on shoes. He's good looking if you like square faced men with a cleft chin. It's one of those dips in the chin which can never be properly removed of all hair.

They talk quietly to each other. Slight concern on their faces. Not too much. It's not quite panic yet. Sam has been late home before.

It's the neighbours. They complain about Sam. He upsets them. They accuse him of doing things which they deny, but suspect was him.

The cat...

That dog that was always barking.

Small acts of childish vandalism. Broken fence. Mutilated flowerbed. Slashed car tyres. That sort of thing. Nothing ever proven, but yes, Sam bothered the people who wanted a quiet life because Sam was not like the other kids around here.

'To Hell with this.' The woman snaps. 'We need to call this in. It's dark.'

'I can see it's dark.' The man has a gravelly voice. He doesn't sound happy. 'He'll come home.'

'In what state? At what time? We have to know where he goes. It's part of our job.' She turns and walks back into the tidy little house.

He follows her and closes the door. Not locking it. Sam will be back soon. 'If it was possible to follow him, we'd know what he gets up to.'

'I've put in for a transfer.' She slumps on the dark red couch. 'I can't take this.' Fingers scratching at her scalp.

'A transfer? They're not going to like that. It's only been, what? Just over three months? It's going to take longer than that for him to relax enough. We'll get nothing out of him yet. You knew that. We can't start this over again. We need results.'

'He's out buying drugs and selling his body. You know that. I know that. The department knows that. What is there to learn from him?'

'Where Floyd is. Where Reid is. He will tell us. He will tell us when he feels he can trust us and that's not going to happen over night.'

'Reid is dead.' She's quite sure of that.

'Proof?' She's asked.

'I don't need any! He's disappeared with Flanders.'

'Doesn't mean he's dead.' He reminds her.

'Statistics would argue with that statement.'

'Statistics are not always correct.'

She makes a snarly sound at the back of her throat. 'I'd love a glass of wine... just sometimes. You know what I mean?'

'I know what you mean.' He sits on a big green chair, picks up the TV remote and picks out a nature show. They sit in the slow darkness and wait.