Gin Palace by Tracy Whitwell

Author:Tracy Whitwell
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pan Macmillan UK

VOLCANO PALMS

Oh, come on.

I’ve been tapping on Milo’s red front door for five minutes and no one’s answering. I’ve tried his mobile and he’s not answering that, either. Milo just doesn’t do this. The only reason I can think of for his absence, and his ignored phone, is that he’s at a work meeting, but it’s nearly seven o’clock in the evening, so it’s pretty doubtful.

In a fit of pique I ignore my usual paranoia about pissing people’s neighbours off and I bang on his front door, loud, hard and continuously for a whole minute. My knuckles are red by the time I’ve finished and I have to lick them, then blow on them. Again no one comes. I’m about to abort my mission when I hear a sound from the top of his stairs.

He was in all along!

Another few seconds and there he is, opening the door, hair mussed up from sleep and wearing the shorts and crappy T-shirt of the depressed. I can see it from a mile off. The scrunched-up eyes, the heavy expression, the holes in his top. Milo doesn’t wear shit things, not even for bed.

‘Milo, what the hell? Get upstairs now – we need to talk.’

Sullen and heavy-footed, he thumps back upstairs. His voice is thick and slow with sleep.

‘Tanz, sorry – I’ve been busy. And to be honest, I don’t really want any visitors right now.’

‘I’m not “visitors”. What are you on about?’

I close the front door and follow him up.

When we walk into the living room I actually have to stop and orientate myself. By Milo’s standards, this place is a catastrophe. Empty pizza boxes, empty gin bottles and an overflowing ashtray. Plus, there’s a stain on his carpet. Milo doesn’t do mess. He hasn’t even opened a window to let out the smoke fug (which is basically a crime worse than matricide in his books) and he doesn’t ever ignore my calls. What’s going on?

‘Tanz, I need to go back to bed.’

He’s just standing there. His eyes are glazed over like he’s already asleep. I adopt my bossiest I-mean-business voice.

‘Sit down, Milo, I’m making you a coffee.’

I’ve brought some expensive ground espresso beans for the cafetière I got him last Christmas. I also have really good dark-chocolate biscuits and red wine in my bag. I’m not happy with how much gin he’s been chucking down his neck recently, hypocritical as that may be, so I’ve brought some Merlot, which is much better for him because he can’t drink it in such ridiculous quantities.

Milo doesn’t argue with me; he simply pulls some jogging bottoms off the floor and drags them on over his shorts. I didn’t even think he owned a pair of jogging bottoms. He hates leisurewear.

‘Ha-ha. He’ll never live this down.’

‘Frank! What the hell’s going on here? I feel like I’ve walked into The Twilight Zone.’

‘You’re going to have to do your stuff, Tanz. I can’t sort this one.’

Milo looks like he’s nodding off again in his chair. There is such a weird feeling in this flat.

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