Back from the Dead: A crime mystery thriller novel by André Spiteri

Author:André Spiteri [Spiteri, André]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Maverick Words
Published: 2024-01-22T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 33

Walking off the bus, it occurred to me I hadn’t thought about Phillip, Carruthers Capital, or Superior Foods and their dodgy as fuck management accounts for over an hour. Nor was I inclined to resume my ruminations. The brisk air and the good company, helped, no doubt, by the beer, had lifted my mood. And as I walked down the hill towards my building, it felt like my feet were barely touching the ground. I was gliding. Moving along so smoothly I didn’t realise I was on a collision course with somebody until I felt my hand connect with a squishy belly and looked up to see deep-set brown eyes shooting daggers at me from beneath bushy black eyebrows.

‘You blind, prick?’ the bloke growled.

It was enough to make an angry lion shrivel, and I was no lion.

‘Sorry,’ I squeaked.

I rushed off towards my building as fast as I could without breaking into an all-out run. My heart was still pounding when I reached my landing, and I almost crashed again. This time into Morag. Jesus Christ. Maybe I really was going blind.

‘Oh Bertie, just the man I was looking for,’ she said.

Of course I was.

‘Is that so?’ I replied warily. ‘What’s the matter? Something wrong?’

‘Oh, no, no, no. Well, actually yes. I wanted to talk to you about…’ she glanced at Graeme’s front door. ‘Do you mind coming downstairs for a second?’

‘Err, I…’

She took me by the arm and attacked the stairs, her walk tentative, but her grip so strong it would leave a bruise just above my elbow. Some people don’t take no for an answer. Morag was on a whole other level. She didn’t even wait for the answer.

‘Morag, I’ve had a long day. Can’t this wait?’ I said.

‘Oh, this won’t take a minute,’ she told me, dragging me inside her flat. ‘But we really need to discuss this.’

‘Discuss what?’ I said, fearing I knew what was coming and feeling resentful about it. My good mood was turning sour.

‘Let me get you a drink,’ she said, hobbling towards the kitchenette.

‘No I-’

‘Just water,’ she called out without turning.

‘Right. OK.’

The flat was the same size and had the exact same layout as mine: an entryway with a bathroom to the left, opening on a square studio room. But it was dingy and rundown in comparison. The carpet, which once upon a time must’ve been a lush cream colour, had turned a sickly shade of beige-grey. The pine kitchen units were chipped in several places. And the smells of reheated pasta and microwave dinners gave the air the faint but unmistakable whiff of loneliness and desperation.

I looked around, unsure what to do with myself. There were no photo frames anywhere in sight. No kids or relatives immortalised for posterity, brightening up the place. The emptiness got to me. It had to be soul-destroying, having all those hours stretching out before you, day in day out, and nothing to fill them with.

Feeling slightly guilty about all the times I'd brushed her off, I softened my tone.

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