Lets Drink To The Dead Read Free Page A

engine grumbling. Any minute... any minute now...
    They tell her the ambulance is on its way as she sees the van door open and close and a big lumbering bulk slide out to sway on the road. Fitton rolls up the short path to the door. She lets the curtain fall back into place, gabbles something into the phone and hangs up. Oh Christ what did she say? Did she say something wrong, did she hang up the phone too soon? Will they suspect that–
    Fitton bangs on the door. She yelps. Then takes breaths. Long, slow. Now be wise, Vera; now be calm. For your sake and for Alan’s . Walsh is dead, he’ll never hurt Alan again, but they’re not out of the woods by a long chalk yet.
    Fitton bangs again on the door, harder. Brutal. Like a boxer. Always like he’s attacking something. Maybe he was a victim once, like them. Prey. Maybe that’s the rage he carries. And maybe not. She doesn’t care. Whatever he was, he’s this now.
    She goes to the door and opens it a crack. Fitton tries to push through; it catches on the chain. “Where’s Adrian?”
    Walsh. Daddy Adrian , Alan calls him. “Hang on,” she says, and shuts the door. How long will the ambulance take? There’s not much time; can’t be. She takes off the chain, opens it and steps back smartish as Fitton barges through, ugly brutal hog-faced barrel of a man that he is. “Where is he?”
    Vera shuts the door behind him. “Kitchen.”
    “Adrian.” Fitton’s already marching forward. Vera walks slowly after him, cat-footed. In the pocket of her jeans there is a knife. She puts her hand on it, ready. “Adria–”
    Fitton’s voice stops dead as he goes through the kitchen door. Vera stops behind him. Far enough away to have some warning if he comes at her. She slips the knife free, holds it against the back of her thigh.
    “He’s dead,” she says. Fitton turns to look at her, his eyes black slits. “And I’ve got his stuff. His porn. All his filthy magazines.” She puts her free hand in the other pocket, draws a torn, much-folded page, flicks it at him. It falls at his feet. He doesn’t pick it up. “Look at it.”
    Fitton crouches. His trousers creak and for a moment she thinks they’ll split, but they don’t. Good thing too; she’d not be able to keep from laughing, and that might be all it takes to touch things off. Fitton’s eyes don’t waver from hers as his fingers grub about on the worn carpet, or when he stands with the folded scrap of glossy paper in his hands. He doesn’t look away from her until it’s unfolded. Only then. His face goes still, pale, then red.
    “Good likeness,” she says. “No doubting that it’s you, or what you’re doing.” Fitton’s thick fat sausagey fingers clench and unclench at his sides. The page falls to the floor. His eyes are back on hers and do not waver. She might have to use the knife. “Don’t do anything stupid,” she says. “I’ve hid the stash. Safe. Owt happens to me and it’ll be found. And then everyone’ll know you bastards for what you are.”
    Fitton studies her. His thick lips twist. “Bollocks.” She grips the knife tighter. “You’ve not had time.”
    “Really? You wanna bet? He’s been dead a while. Anyone asks me, I only just found him. Been upstairs. Playing me cassettes. Not been feeling great. On the blob, you know?” Fitton looks ill at the mention. “But really? I’ve had bags of time, Mr Fitton. Enough that you’ll not find it here.”
    “What do you want?”
    “My brother. Where is he?”
    “In the van.”
    “Get out there and send him in. After that there’s only one thing I want off you, and you give me it and I’ll tell you where I put his stuff.”
    Fitton moves towards her, and despite the knife she moves back. But he’s only going for the door. “I’ll send him in,” he says. “What’s t’other thing you want?”
    “Money.”
    “Of course.”
    “Not like that. One payment. A one-off. I don’t want anything more of yours than I can help. Just enough