Consequence by Eli Yance

beyond. If anyone was looking -- which they no doubt were -- their inquisitive eyes would see nothing but his broad frame.
    “We’re just here to borrow a cup of sugar mate,” Morris said, grinning.
    The pale figure began to contemplate the statement, but Morris’s fist moved a lot faster then Pearce’s mind ever could.
    The right hook propelled him backwards, he lost his balance and crashed into a wooden shoe rack. He attempted to cushion his fall with his right hand but his movements were too slow and the appendage crippled beneath his weight, sandwiched behind the solid wooden rack and his own spine.
    The shoe rack was small and homemade, but his weak weight couldn’t crush the minor object and he paid for that disadvantage with agonising pain. His spine twisted awkwardly over the furniture and his upper back bent over the back of the rack. He unleashed a muffled moan as he rolled off the rack and collapsed onto the hard wood floor, unsure whether to grip his crushed wrist or care for his twisted back.
    Roach and Morris didn’t waste time. They quickly stepped inside the house and closed the door behind them. Roach strode forth into the rooms beyond as Morris stood over the crumpled ghost in the porch.
    Pearce attempted to pull himself to his feet, using the walls and his uninjured arm to propel his body upwards. He slowly found his feet again and slouched against the wall, blinking away the pain.
    Morris pounced on the stricken man again. He grabbed his injured arm and manoeuvred around the back of the scrawny individual. He twisted his arm up his back and forced him forwards, shoving him hard and slamming his face into the grey walls.
    Wayne Pearce moaned as his nose snapped and began to spill blood and puss over the wall.
    In an unkempt, smoky living room James Roach found a young girl lying drugged up on an old and tattered sofa. She looked no more than thirteen; her body was still unformed and on the slight side, her face a collage of spots, blemishes and dried-up makeup.
    She wore nothing more than a tank-top -- the words ‘ Little Devil ’ emblazoned in large fiery letters across the chest area -- and a short Denim skirt, which had been stained and marked in various places.
    He shook his head as he watched her. Her eyes were gazing at the ceiling, her mind completely lost to the world. Roach doubted she knew that he, or anyone else, was even there -- and by the looks of it, he thought, Pearce had been trying to take advantage of the fact.
    Her knickers had been pulled down to her knees and her skirt had been lifted halfway up her pale thighs. Her arms were limp and dangling by her sides, even if she did know what was going on, Roach doubted she could have done anything about it.
    Her top had been lifted to expose a black bra which had been roughly tampered with to expose one of her small breasts. Down by her side, inches from her dangling arm, lay an empty syringe. Roach sighed in disgust and quickly checked the rest of the house.
    Darren Morris lifted the busted face of Wayne Pearce away from the wall; his broken nose spilled blood down his pale skin and ran rivers through his chest hair.
    “I need some information,” he declared directly into Pearce’s ear before ramming his face into the wall again.
    29
    Howard and Lisa Price laughed their way out of the cinema. Howard had been talked into going to watch an animated comedy after they finished shopping. He had immediately dismissed it as a children’s film, but it had him hooked.
    He listened -- with a smile spread across his face -- as his daughter recounted moments from the cartoon classic.
    “I told you it would be a good film,” Lisa said proudly.
    Howard nodded, “I must admit: I enjoyed it.”
    “We should do this more often,” Lisa offered. “I’ve had fun. Maybe we can bring mum along sometime too.”
    They looked at each other and paused before speaking simultaneously: “Nah.”
    “Mr Price?”
    Howard turned away from his smiling