Post Mortem by Gary Bell (free children's ebooks pdf .TXT) 📕

jury’s still out on whether it can survive.’

‘I’m not surprised.’ Her eyes were clocking me, making fast deductions. ‘How’s your head?’

‘Still sore if I press it hard enough.’

‘I read about what happened in the news, of course. The attack. Then your sister messaged me at New Year. You went there for Christmas?’

‘Had to go somewhere,’ I said.

‘About time you made some sort of effort with them.’

Down at my side, I lifted my thumb from my fist; barb number one.

‘Dad kept the newspaper clippings,’ she went on. ‘Another story for the Rook book he’ll never get around to writing.’

‘How is Phillip?’

‘Dying.’

That hit me like a hook to my ribs, stealing my wind. Phillip Tilden had been more of a father to me than my own ever had. Even after those nights when Jenny would storm out to stay at her parents’, he’d always kept me in good favour. He was a decent man. Now I felt appalling for not calling him since the divorce. ‘Why? I mean, how?’

‘Cancer. Pancreatic. Advanced.’

‘Shit.’ I assumed this was the reason for her visit. I relented and opened the front door. ‘You want to come inside?’

She breezed in and then stopped as if she’d hit a brick wall. ‘Jesus. It smells like stale smoke and sour piss in here.’

‘That’s the name of this new aftershave I’m trying.’ I closed the door behind us. In her cage, the dog started to growl.

‘He has a dog now!’

‘Scout,’ I said.

‘You always disliked pets.’

‘You always disliked opening your mouth for the dentist, but I’m assuming that isn’t such an issue any more,’ I couldn’t help replying. ‘How is Tom?’

‘Ever the acid-tongued barrister,’ she muttered, circling the futon. ‘Tom is fine.’

‘I take it he made it through the winter without needing me to come and show him how the boiler works.’

She looked back over one shoulder, those damn eyebrows rising again. ‘Elliot, I’m not sure you ever knew how the boiler worked.’

Atop my head, I could feel a single curl of combed hair fighting the pomade, lifting upwards into a more wilted imitation of alfalfa. I flushed, brushing it back down.

‘At least you’re not still wearing that stupid hat,’ she said.

‘Drink?’

She turned and stared at the kitchenette with an expression of horror. ‘I’ll pass, thanks. You know, you could’ve taken the coffee machine.’

‘Your father,’ I said, getting myself a lager from the fridge. ‘How long …?’

‘Does he have to live? Realistically, we’re talking about a length of string, but the string is more like stretched cotton. Cotton snaps. So probably sooner rather than later.’ She always spoke like this.

I opened my can with weak hands. ‘And your mother? How’s she handling it.’

‘About as well as can be expected.’

‘He’s still at home with her?’ I asked.

‘Where else?’

‘I wasn’t sure if he’d gone to a …’ The word formed on my lips – hospice – and dissolved there. ‘I should give him a ring.’

‘He’d appreciate that.’ Her eyes drifted down to my left hand, the fingers wrapped around the beer.

‘I don’t wear it,’ I told her after a huge, cold mouthful.

‘I read in the paper –’

‘Don’t believe everything you read.’

‘Hmm.’ After lapping the entire room twice over, she perched on the nearest arm of my folded futon with narrowed eyes. ‘What have you been fucking around with now, Elliot?’

‘Excuse me?’ My stomach lurched; for one bizarre second, I thought she was referring to Lydia. ‘What do you mean?’

She swung her bag onto her knee and opened it. From inside, she produced a clear plastic wallet, which she held between two fingers as if it might erupt into flames at any moment. It looked sort of funny, like something out of a corny old spy film, until I saw the single sheet of A4 paper inside.

There were seven words. Printed, not handwritten. Large, plain font.

YOUR TRIAL OR YOUR LIFE. LOSE ONE.

I swallowed. ‘What’s this?’

‘This was lying on my doormat this morning.’

For a moment I couldn’t speak. I could feel sweat spreading across my forehead. I emptied half of my beer. ‘It came in the post?’

‘Does it look like it came from the Royal Mail? Delivered by hand in the night, I assume.’

‘Did Tom see it?’ It sounded like a stupid question, but it seemed a matter of personal embarrassment.

‘God no. He’d have had the police over in minutes.’

I nodded. This wasn’t the first threat that had found its way to that address – at one time they’d been terribly frequent – and I was glad to see that Jenny had remembered my preferred way of handling things. That said, their former frequency had undermined their severity and they tended to go straight into the recycling along with the circulars and takeaway menus. This was different, not least because I was no longer the one at risk. The threat was clearly aimed at me, but it was Jenny who could be in danger, and only hours after the Osman warning had found its way to Andre Israel.

‘I thought this shit would’ve left after you did,’ she said. ‘How are they still coming to my house?’

‘Same way they always did, I suppose. Our address was no great secret, considering you worked from home and advertised it on three separate websites.’

The grey in her eyes turned red before she was up on her feet. ‘You’re saying this is my fault?’

‘No.’

‘That’s exactly what you’re saying!’ She threw the plastic slip wallet at the floor with force; it drifted casually, almost brazenly, which annoyed her even more. ‘Where’s your car, Elliot? What happened to it?’

‘Vandals.’ With one eye I checked my watch, which was the equivalent of throwing a can of gas onto a fire.

‘Oh, I am sorry,’ she snapped. ‘Do you have somewhere more pressing to be?’

‘As a matter of fact, I have a date.’ I told myself not to say it smugly, but like a door slammed in her face, it had the impact I was looking for.

‘Right. Well. Don’t let me take up any more of your precious time.’ She was already storming for the front