Page 73 of Four for a Boy

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Josh made his way around the club, enticing women towards him with his skintight t-shirt and huge arms. Each time Chad glanced over to him, he was chatting away, or more accurately shouting in a woman’s ear and awaiting a shout back in return.

Chad pushed away the sting of jealousy. It was so casual for Josh, so easy for him to be around people. He didn’t fear what may lurk behind him or shudder at the thought of eyes on his back.

Chad had taken a position with his back against the wall and lifted his mask just enough to sip his beer while watching the antics on the dancefloor. Bandages and cloaks danced in the air. Most people had removed their masks, red-faced and hot with sweat.

White scrubs and blond hair appeared in the corner of Chad’s vision. He looked at the man dressed as Doctor Carter, and he looked back, before making his way over.

He held his hand out to Chad. “I’m Dr Carter.”

“I’m Frankenstein’s monster.”

“My little brother wore that for Halloween.”

Chad touched the mask. The cheap plastic scratched his skin.

“Why?” Chad couldn’t say the name, so gestured to the outfit instead.

“He’s Bardhum’s biggest serial killer. He got away with killing all those kids and disappeared into the sunset. Did you see the documentary about him?”

“No.”

“It’s a good watch. Messed up, but so good.”

Chad breathed a sigh of relief when the guy was pulled away by his friends. He disappeared into the jumping masses, shedding his doctor’s gown in the process.

Chad forced himself to cross the club and joined the queue for the bar. The guy beside him shot him a quick look before a much longer one that raised the hair on Chad’s arms. He touched Chad’s shoulder and leaned close to speak to him.

It took everything in Chad not to put distance between them.

“Are you done with that?”

“What?”

“The glass.”

Chad was close to breaking it in his grip. He snorted and handed it over. The man stacked it with the others he was holding and moved away. Chad watched as he went behind the bar and loaded them into the dishwasher.

The queue died down with the appearance of foam on the dance floor. Red foam. The flier had cheerfully promised blood bubbles.

Chad propped his elbow against the bar and watched the dancefloor.

He jumped at a tap on his shoulder. The barman smiled at him, then pointed across the club. “Not your thing?”

“No,” Chad said, turning his back to the dancefloor. “How long have you worked here?”

“Three hours.”

“What?”

The man laughed. “My team was hired yesterday to run the club for the night.”

“What about the usual staff?”

“They refused to work. One of them was here earlier, and she was not happy. She threw a glass at Pete—the owner, before she left, missed him by a few inches.”

Chad looked at the barman, really looked at him. The mask hid Chad’s expression, but it was one of absolute horror. He pointed at the barman, and kept his voice level as he asked him, “Who are you dressed as?”

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