January by Kerry Wilkinson Page B

good year. Typical.
    ‘Come on, come on,’ he mumbled, eyeing the closed hatch. There was a flicker of movement inside the kitchen beyond but no sign of the server returning.
    ‘He might’ve gone for a piss,’ Chris added, as unhelpful as ever.
    He’d better not have done. Doesn’t he know how much I have riding on getting out of here before midnight?
    11.59.
    ‘How long does it take to put some chicken in a bag?’
    Kitkat neither expected nor wanted an answer but got one anyway. ‘Dunno, mate.’
    He wondered if Chris understood the concept of a rhetorical question.
    With a flash, the hatch doors opened, bringing Kitkat back to the present as a bucket – an actual small-scale trough – of chicken was thrust towards him. The spiky-haired server was
staring at him with widened brown eyes, drawing Kitkat’s gaze. Kitkat couldn’t manage to peer away, passing the bucket across his lap to Chris, who was smacking his lips annoyingly.
Still the server stared. He was in his late teens or early twenties and his head was tilted, eyebrows raised ever so slightly as if he was trying to say something telepathically. The thought
flickered through Kitkat’s mind that he was getting the eye. Was the server gay? Was this what it felt like to have someone flirt disastrously? He should know – he could put girls off
with the merest hint of a smile. Either way, it felt strange.
    ‘Er . . .’ Kitkat mumbled.
    Without looking away, the server reached underneath the hatch and stretched across to give him a brown paper bag. As Kitkat took it, the spiky-haired young man nodded gently, knowingly.
    Did Kitkat know him? Was he the brother of a mate? Had they been at school together? He didn’t seem familiar.
    Kitkat finally escaped the stare, placing the bag underneath his legs and resting it against the seat so that Chris couldn’t go through his food. He glanced up in time to see a bottle of
Pepsi being thrust across as the server offered another nod alongside a handful of change.
    The weirdo.
    Kitkat wound the window up, gaze flickering to the dashboard, where the clock read 00.00.
    Damn. It was New Year and it was going to be a dreadful one – all because of Chris with his bargain bucket and the stupid server.
    Kitkat pulled away as the smell of grease filled the vehicle. Chris delved deep into the cardboard container and bit into a chunk of chicken. ‘Happy New Year,’ he said with his mouth
full.
    ‘Yeah,’ Kitkat replied, slipping away from the drive-thru towards the main road and taking the turn for home. He wondered if he should tell Chris not to touch anything with his oily
fingers but the green rust heap he drove was on its last legs in any case. He’d never be able to sell it on.
    The short journey was punctuated by various noises emitted from the passenger seat that wouldn’t have gone amiss in a farmyard. Chris snorted his way through his food like a rabid pig high
on ecstasy, the only respite being that he wasn’t talking.
    It wasn’t long before Kitkat pulled into one of the shadowed parking bays that flanked the Hulme flats in which they both lived. The spaces were on the edge of the main road, surrounded by
poverty and desperation on both sides. The row was largely empty – nobody who had a car worth anything left their vehicle here – but Kitkat had no such worries. If someone wanted to
break in or nick it, they were welcome. He didn’t know if he should be annoyed that no one had tried.
    Ahead, the three-sided housing block was bathed in an orangey glow from the square of dim street lights that ringed the rows of grubby concrete. The long lines of two-storey flats ran along the
edge of a muddy green in which a sagging Christmas tree sat in the centre. The lights had been predictably nicked on the first day but the shrub itself remained – just – its spindly
branches almost free of pine needles. The outer walls of the flats were peppered with graffiti, largely listing local girls who were