The Perfect Friend (May Queen Killers Book 2) by Lorna Dounaeva

Author:Lorna Dounaeva [Dounaeva, Lorna]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2019-08-08T22:00:00+00:00

A writer is trapped in his neighbour’s flat, a flat he never even knew existed. The door had been hidden from view, like a secret entrance way. He had assumed it was just a supply cupboard for use by the caretaker. He had never imagined that anyone could actually live down there in the basement. But then, one cold February morning, he ran out of toilet paper….

He couldn’t believe he had written ‘toilet paper’. He didn’t want toilet paper in his novel. He didn’t want people to think about him going to the loo. His fingers slowed as he tumbled back into the real world, and his imagination crumbled once more to dust.

“You’ve stopped!” Yara’s voice was accusatory, as Jock faltered, wondering what to write next.

“I’m thinking.”

“There’s no time to think,” she said, slapping him across the wrist. “Keep writing, you naughty boy. You’ve got work to do.”

His own flat was directly above this one, he realised.

“Dylan! Robbie!” he yelled.

Yara lurched towards him and pulled a scarf around his mouth. He wriggled frantically as she tied it behind his neck. He could still make noise, but his words were more muffled now, and he wasn’t sure anyone would hear.

“Back to work,” she said sternly, pointing at the screen.

He stared at it. His anger fought with his urge to create. Because Yara was right. This was the first time in ages that he’d felt such raw emotion. His body was weak and damaged, yet his heart pumped with adrenaline. It was invigorating, like taking a cold shower. He had never been more alive.

He wrote down his fears, his fingers flying over the keys. Yara wanted him to write her a book, but he’d wasted the last eight months doing anything but writing. What if he had lost the knack?

He looked around again, this time his eyes landed on the ceiling, which had all kinds of strange scrapes and bumps on it. It looked as if someone had used porridge to plaster it. The rest of the room had been freshly painted in a brilliant aquamarine, but why hadn’t she had the ceiling fixed? Or did she like it that way?

The iron railings on the window caught his eye. What were they there for? There were no bars on any of his windows in his flat upstairs. Had they always been there, or had she added them herself?

His wrist stung, but he pretended not to feel it. He looked around the room and typed a description of the things he saw. There was a vase of tulips, slowly dying on the mantlepiece. Several of the petals had come away and lay scattered around the chimney breast. Where did she get tulips at this time of year? A pair of men’s slippers poked out from under the sofa, Kenneth’s no doubt, and then there was the large foam hand on the wall, its fat fingers pointing towards the door. It taunted him, that hand, reminding him of how badly he wanted to get out.

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