Saturday must have been watching for him, because Ash had hardly pulled into the kerb in Railway Street before the boy had the door open and was waiting on the step, shifting edgily from one bare foot to the other. The light was on in the hall behind him: only as they met in the doorway did Ash get a proper look at him. What he saw shocked him to the core. The t-shirt Saturday slept in was torn and spattered with blood, and his hands were bloody to the wrists. There was blood on his face, too, though the delicate trickle from his left nostril seemed unlikely to have produced the volume evident about his person. There was a graze on his cheek and his knuckles were torn. "God in heaven, Saturday - what have you been up to?" Saturday swallowed. "You should see the other guy." Ash gave a gruff chuckle. "Yeah, right." "No, really. You need to come inside and see the other guy." Ash followed him down the narrow hall. The other guy was at the foot of the stairs, sprawled motionless on the threadbare carpet, his head resting just inside the kitchen door, one foot on the bottom step, one gloved hand twisted behind him. Blood - much more blood than there was on Saturday - pooled under his face, and there was a cricket bat on the floor beside him. It was Oliver Ford, and Ash thought he was dead. Excerpted from Other Countries by Jo Bannister All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
