Acid Vanilla by Matthew Hattersley

Author:Matthew Hattersley [Hattersley, Matthew]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Boom Boom Press
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 26

Acid opened her eyes and sat bolt upright on the large velvet couch, unsure where she was but sensing it was vital for her to be awake. Across the room she could make out blurred red numbers. The cooker’s digital clock display. She peered around. Other objects came into focus: the large bay window that looked out over Paris, the basic but expensive décor, the original artwork on the walls. It was Whitman’s apartment. She narrowed her eyes at the clock. 8.35 a.m.

“Shit.” When the bats were around, Acid didn’t need much sleep. In fact, she couldn’t sleep most nights. But she must have dozed off. That wasn’t good.

She padded over to the kitchen and filled a glass with water, drinking it down in one go. She examined the room, happy to find that old sop, Clement – Whitman’s neighbour from across the hall – was nowhere to be seen. He must have slipped away after Spook disappeared into the bedroom and Acid’s feigned tiredness turned into actual sleep. That would have been around five. She remembered because every hour that ticked by had felt like another nail in her coffin.

The plan after leaving Bar Hemingway had been to grab Spook’s passport and get the hell out of Dodge. Annihilation knew they were here, together. They were sitting ducks. But after logging onto the airline, the first flights available weren’t until the following evening. Her next idea was going to a hotel – somewhere off-grid so they could lie low until it was time for the flight – but whilst getting Spook’s stuff, a drunk and tearful Clement had appeared at Whitman’s door with a bottle of expensive vodka and invited himself inside. He hadn’t shut up until he’d literally sent them both to sleep.

Still, Clement was an interesting enough guy, full of amazing tales. As his tongue had gotten looser, he’d told them how he’d been a decent photographer back in the day, had albums heaving with candid shots of Paris nightlife and exotic parties. After that he didn’t take much convincing to show them his collection, and with all the drink and exuberance inside him he hadn’t noticed Acid as she palmed one particular photo into her jacket pocket.

She took it out now and examined it in the cold light of day. A young Kent Clarkson, taken in Whitman’s apartment, maybe ten years ago. At some seedy party he’d been throwing. Acid curled up her lip in disgust at the image. The more she found out about these bastards, the more she wanted to put a bullet or two in them.

No.

She pushed the thought away and stuffed the photo back in her jeans. Right now she had more pressing issues. Like getting out of Paris alive. She put down her glass and went to locate the American, finding her in the main bedroom, face down on the super-king-size bed.

“Hey. Wake up.” Acid rapped her knuckles on the door. “We need to move.”

“Ugh.” There was a hint of movement from the bed, a muffled grunt, but that was all.

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