January by Kerry Wilkinson Page A

on that none of them knew about.
    The car in front inched forward again, Kitkat following until they were level with the speaker booth. A grainy male voice crackled from the box: ‘Hello, welcome to Tennessee Fried Chicken,
how can I help you?’
    Kitkat opened his mouth but Chris jumped in first. ‘Bargain bucket, please, mate. Two gravies. Bottle of Pepsi.’
    There was a pause and then: ‘Anything else?’
    ‘I’ll have one of those spicy burger things,’ Kitkat mumbled, ‘with fries and whatever.’
    It was particularly vague but there was a beep and then the voice replied: ‘Second window.’
    Kitkat edged forward, tantalisingly close to the food as the clock moved on to 11.55. It was going to be touch and go, but there was every chance they’d ring in the new year while waiting
in a queue for fried chicken. There was perhaps only one thing worse than that – being one of the poor sods having to work at this place on New Year’s Eve.
    ‘Bloody good place, this,’ Chris said, absent-mindedly picking something from between his teeth. ‘I come here all the time. It’s open twenty-four hours.’
    It didn’t show – he had a rake-like frame, with angled cheekbones, short fair hair and fake designer clothes.
    11.56.
    Kitkat pushed himself up, peering past the pair of cars in front and making a silent and utterly irrational pledge that if they were out of this place by midnight, then the next year would
definitely be successful and productive. He’d get a job
and
a girlfriend. The next three hundred and sixty-five days rested on the outcome of the next four minutes.
    Chris was back to rubbing his crotch. ‘Clarkey’s been scouting this church out Walkden way. He reckons there’s a load of lead on the roof. You can make a fortune off that at
the moment. He’s getting a ladder off his mate and we’re gonna go have a look.’
    ‘Is that before or after you go into business selling those knock-off Nikes?’
    Chris didn’t catch the scepticism in Kitkat’s tone. ‘Prob’ly before. If we can get the lead down and sell it on, Clarkey reckons we can buy more gear. Gotta spend money
to make money, aintcha?’
    He clapped Kitkat on the back as if he’d shared a master business plan and then leant back in the passenger seat and put his feet on the dashboard.
    Kitkat
definitely
needed some better friends. He con-cluded that if they were out of the drive-thru by midnight, the next year would bring a job, a girlfriend
and
better
friends.
    11.57.
    An arm snaked out from the driver’s window of the car at the front of the queue, retrieving a brown paper bag from the serving hatch, but the vehicle didn’t pull away. Kitkat counted
the seconds in his head. Ten. Twenty. Thirty – and then the arm appeared again, grabbing a second bag of food before the car finally zoomed off. Chris was still prattling on about his
ridiculous scheme to steal lead but Kitkat ignored him, edging forward. They were second in line, tantalisingly close to the food and, more importantly, the promise of a good year.
    The driver in front snatched a bag of food and bottle of Apple Tango and then screeched away, sending a noxious cloud of diesel into the air. Kitkat didn’t hesitate, pulling up to the
serving hatch and winding his window down. A spiky-haired lad was peering at them. Chris fumbled in his pockets and gave up a ten-pound note. Kitkat added his own money and handed it across but
instead of passing forward a bag or two of food, the server offered a small smile, mumbled something that might’ve been ‘one minute’ and closed the glass sliders.
    The bastard.
    11.58.
    There was now slightly less than two minutes to go until the new year and, with the rule Kitkat had made for himself, that meant time was ticking on whether it was going to be a productive
one.
    ‘Prob’ly putting together my bucket,’ Chris said, staring at his phone.
    Yes
, Kitkat thought,
your bargain bloody bucket is going to cost me the chance of a