We’re bored. There’s nothing to do. We can’t even get a drink; the shop won’t serve us.
“I know where we can get a beer,” says Mozza. “Bet there’s stuff in ‘The Eatery’.”
It closed six months ago. The fella did a runner in the middle of the night. Jamie’s not keen, but we know he’s just scared of his dad.
We prowl round and lurk in the shadows. We prise a window and slither in, sniggering. It’s the most fun we’ve had in weeks. We flick our lighters. Everything is filmed with black, sticky dust.
Mozza’s wrong; there’s no booze here. We clatter through the kitchen. The oozing darkness closes behind us.
I open a door. The lighters blow out. There is a smell; sour and earthy. When Mozza’s spark lights, Jamie screams.
Bodies; the room is full of bodies, dead bodies, sprawling in piles across the floor, limp limbs dangling.
Then, somewhere behind us, a door slams.
I wish we could go back to being merely bored.