The Edge by Chris Simms

Author:Chris Simms [Simms, Chris]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
ISBN: 9781409103202
Google: L-bLOwAACAAJ
Publisher: Orion
Published: 2008-12-31T16:00:00+00:00

Eighteen

Unable to see a thing, Jon worked the heel of his shoe into the softness at his feet, slowly swivelling his foot to gouge the rut deeper. As he lifted the bottle of Famous Grouse, the slosh of whisky inside was the only sound to break the utter silence.

Knowing it would do nothing to counter the desolation that filled his chest, he sucked more of the fiery liquid down. His brother had come to Haverdale to peddle drugs. That was the simple truth. A solitary shooting star rifled down the night, like a missile loosed at the earth by some vengeful god.

He looked to his side, knowing that, in the darkness probably no more than ten feet away, was the spot where Dave had died. There had been no crime-scene tape to stumble into when he’d finally made the summit. Like a blind man, he’d felt around for a decent hummock of grass to sit on.

So, was it Flynn? Had he murdered Dave? Somewhere a bird cried out, the beseeching noise sounding more like the mewl of a kitten. Unable to decide, Jon replayed his conversation with Flynn yet again. He’d needed a reason for knowing Dave’s identity, and unable to think of anything else, had blurted out the story about the newspaper. Had Flynn been genuinely surprised, or was it alarm that had flashed across his face? Once again, the image of the little bag of crystals broke Jon’s train of thought. Flynn’s voice echoed in his head. Ice. Can get all you want of this: the kids love it.

Jon shook his head. Flynn wasn’t organised enough to be manufacturing crystal meth himself. Someone had to be supplying him with it. William Beaumont? He definitely handed something over to Flynn outside The Spread Eagle. Jon shook his head again. Clutching at straws, mate. Face it. Dave was supplying Flynn. They fell out over something and the bastard killed my brother. End of story.

The bottle swung like a pendulum between his knees. Oh, Dave, you stupid shit. He was suddenly aware of the phone in his jacket pocket. Christ, I’ll have to call Mum and Dad and confirm that everything in the morning papers – the innuendo, the speculation, the conjecture that their youngest son was a drug dealer – is true. He bent over and spat. Dad will be demanding to know who did it, pursing his lips in that disapproving way when he realises no answer will be forthcoming. No answer for who killed his youngest son, or why.

Jon sighed. And then there’s Alice. Letting her know I was mistaken; Dave did have it in him to join the very worst scum of society.

He dug and gouged at the earth with the heel of his shoe. Despite all the evidence, a part of his mind still refused to believe that’s what Dave had been doing.

The bird cried again, its call answered this time. Jon lifted his head and, staring ahead, was just able to make out the faintest smear of grey in the blackness before him.

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