Relics by Shaun Hutson

left arm, using her nails to pick away the three or four scabs which had formed there. The pieces of hardened crust came away and Laura Price slapped at the raw part of her arm using the first two fingers of her free hand, watching as the veins began to stand out.
    Henry Dexter smiled and closed the door, leaving the two teenagers to their own devices. Out in the corridor he turned to face Mick Ferguson, who was taking a last drag on his cigarette. He dropped the butt onto the polished wood floor of the corridor and shrugged.
    ‘That had better be good stuff,’ said Dexter, eyeing the other man suspiciously.
    Beside them on a table lay two small bags of white powder.
    ‘It’s the best quality heroin you’re ever likely to get,’ Ferguson said. ‘Now, I didn’t come here to pass the time of day. You owe me some money.’
    Dexter picked up the bags and dropped them into the pocket of his jacket. Then he and Ferguson walked down the corridor to another room. There was an open fire burning in the grate, and the smell of woodsmoke hung in the air.
    ‘Very cosy,’ said Ferguson. ‘You did well when your old man died. How much did he leave you? Two million, wasn’t it? I remember reading something in the paper at the time.’
    Dexter passed in front of the fire, the glowing tongues of flame momentarily illuminating his face, deepening the shadows beneath his eyes and chin. He was almost forty-five, slim and athletically built. Dressed in a well-tailored jacket and trousers, his shirt pressed and sparkling white, he looked immaculate.
    ‘Was it two million?’ Ferguson persisted.
    ‘What difference does it make to you, Ferguson?’ he said, crossing to a large wall safe hidden behind a passable copy of a Goya. It depicted a young witch having intercourse with a demon, the creature’s long tongue being used to penetrate her anus. Dexter fiddled with the combination of the safe, pulled the door open and fished out some money. He also carefully placed the heroin alongside the other bags which half filled the cavity.
    ‘It’s an expensive habit,’ Ferguson said, grinning.
    ‘It is at the prices you charge,’ the older man told him.
    ‘Look, most heroin is only 55% pure by the time it hits the streets. The dealers mix it with sugar, brick dust and fucking Vim. That stuff,’ he pointed to the safe, ‘is 70% pure.’
    Dexter nodded and held out a wad of notes.
    ‘It’s all there,’ he said. ‘Five hundred pounds. Count it if you like.’
    Ferguson grinned and stuffed the money into his pocket.
    ‘I trust you,’ he replied, his attention drawn by a large dagger which hung over the fireplace, its blade glinting in the glow of the flames. He reached up and took it down, hefting it before him. On the mantelpiece there was a candlestick shaped like the head of a goat. The eyes were small rubies and the firelight made it look as if they were glowing. ‘Do you really believe all this shit about witchcraft?’ Ferguson wanted to know.
    Dexter didn’t answer, he merely fixed the other man with an unblinking stare.
    ‘Or do you think those kids you use believe in it? Have you got one of your little ceremonies coming up again, eh? Is that why you need the heroin? To keep them interested?’ He chuckled.
    ‘Why don’t you just get out of here, Ferguson?’
    ‘How many of them are underage? Those two in the other room look pretty young’.
    Dexter took a step forward but hesitated when he saw Ferguson lower the knife.
    ‘I couldn’t care less what you get up to in that wood of yours,’ Ferguson said, walking past the older man. ‘I don’t care how many kids you turn into junkies. It’s more money for me. And if that’s the only way you can get them to go along with you, then fine, that’s your business too.’
    He stood by the French doors, gazing out into the darkness, his eyes drawn to the black smudge on the nearby hillside where the wood grew. It lay less than half a mile from the house itself. He ran his