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Kitkat felt hands under his armpits, plonking him onto hard ground. He did as he was told, allowing the hands to guide him into what sounded like a
tight corridor. The footsteps of his abductors echoed noisily around the enclosed space until he was shoved into a chair. It felt like it was made of metal, legs squeaking along a tiled floor, the
cold pressing into his back again.
    Silence.
    Kitkat heard nothing, but the hood was suddenly gone, and then the material was removed from his mouth. He spluttered and squinted, trying to regain his senses. Air poured into his lungs, the
vague tang of fried food now unconcealed. Whatever it was smelled an awful lot better than the soft object that had been tickling his tongue. He hoped it hadn’t been a sock.
Really
hoped it wasn’t a sock.
    Slowly the swarm of stars and colours began to clear. He was in a kitchen – a big kitchen, the sort found only in a restaurant or hotel. The floor was a tiled pattern of grey and black
with matching worktops along both sides. Neat lines of sparkling pans hung on one side and he could see a wide sink on the other, brimming with soapy water.
    In front was the shape of a man. He had short fair hair and was wearing a tightly cut suit. Kitkat’s eyes opened wider, taking in the size of the man. He was big: powerful shoulders and
arms bulging against the material.
    ‘D’you know who I am, kid?’
    Kitkat continued blinking, trying to unclutter his mind. Of course he knew the man. Everyone on the estate did.
    ‘Carter.’
    The man nodded but showed no emotion. He had been the right-hand man to Harry Irwell, the one-time guardian of their area. The person who owned pubs, clubs and who knew what else. He also had a
host of other
industries
on the side. It was the secret that wasn’t a secret, not where Kitkat lived in any case. After Irwell’s demise, Carter had stepped up. He was their
guardian now.
    ‘Where’s my money?’
    Kitkat tried to point a thumb towards the rucksack on his back, forgetting his hands were bound. ‘In the bag,’ he mumbled.
    Before he could add anything else, someone behind him stepped forward. He couldn’t see what was going on but felt two snips before the rucksack fell to the floor. There was a shuffling but
he didn’t try to turn, instead focusing back on Carter, trying to read features that were unreadable.
    How much trouble was he in? Everyone on the estate heard rumours – so and so had borrowed money that he couldn’t repay, now he couldn’t walk. The betting shop on the corner
refused to pay up and had burned down days later. What was to be his fate? Carter was the last person whose money he’d have wanted to end up with by accident.
    Kitkat sputtered, ‘I didn’t know’, but nobody replied. Slowly, the pieces began to slide together in his mind. Someone was running a side business at the chicken place, most
likely selling drugs or legal highs alongside cholesterol-soaked meat. It was no wonder Chris said he went there ‘all the time’. Of course he bloody did – he always had a bag of
weed on the go. There was no way Carter would let an industry like that flourish without him getting his cut. Somehow, Kitkat had ended up with the money instead of the intended recipient.
    ‘Four and a half.’ The male voice behind Kitkat sent tendrils of ice spiralling through him.
    Carter’s eyes flickered towards the sound. ‘You sure?’
    ‘Yes, boss.’
    The suited man’s gaze focused back on Kitkat. ‘Where’s the rest?’
    ‘What rest? That’s all there was.’
    Kitkat was panicking, twisting in the seat to see the pile of money on the floor. His bag was turned inside out, no chance of the bundles being hidden. He opened his mouth to protest but then it
dawned on him. Chris had grabbed four bundles the previous evening and Kitkat hadn’t watched him put them all back in the bag. He’d not counted the money before going to bed. The
thieving sod must’ve pocketed five hundred