Pop Goes the Weasel Read Free Page A

glass, before levering himself up onto the sill and inside.
    Landingsoftly, he hesitated. You could never be sure what you might find in these places. There were no signs of life, but it pays to be careful and he held his crowbar tightly as he ventured forward. There was nothing of use in the kitchen so he quickly scurried into the front room.
    This was more promising. Abandoned mattresses, discarded condoms and near them their natural bedfellows, used syringes. He felt his hope and anxiety rising in equal measure. Please God, let there be enough residue inside to harvest a proper fix. Suddenly he was on his hands and knees, pulling out the plungers, thrusting his little finger inside, desperately grubbing around for a little bit of brown to ease his suffering. Nothing in the first, nothing in the second – goddammit – and a fingerful in the third. All this bloody effort for a fingerful. He greedily rubbed it round his gums – it would have to do for now.
    He sank back on the soiled mattress and waited for the numbness to kick in. His nerves had been jangling for hours now, his head pounding, he wanted – needed – some peace. He closed his eyes and exhaled slowly, willing his body to relax.
    But something wasn’t right. Something wouldn’t let him relax. Something was …
    Drip. There it was. A sound. A slow but steady sound, disturbing the quiet, drumming out an insistent warning.
    Drip. Where was it coming from? His eyes flicked nervously this way and that.
    Somethingwas dripping in the far corner of the room. Was it a leak? Shrugging off his irritation, he dragged himself to his feet. It was worth checking out – might be some copper piping in it for him.
    He hurried over, then stopped in his tracks. It wasn’t a leak. It wasn’t water. It was blood. Drip, drip, dripping through the ceiling. Spinning, he hurried away – none of my fucking business – but as he reached the kitchen, he slowed. Perhaps he was being too hasty. He was armed after all and there was no sign of movement upstairs. Anything could have happened. Someone could have topped themselves, could have been mugged, killed, whatever. But there might be spoils in it for a scavenger and that was something that couldn’t be ignored.
    A moment’s hesitation, then the thief turned and crossed the room, edging past the thick pool of congealing blood into the hallway. He darted his head out, crowbar raised to strike at the first sign of danger.
    But there was no one there. Cautiously, he stepped out and began to climb the stairs.
    Creak. Creak. Creak.
    Every step announced his presence and he swore quietly under his breath. If there
was
anyone up there, they would know he was coming. He gripped the crowbar a little tighter as he crested the staircase. Better to be safe than sorry so he darted his head into the bathroom and the back bedroom – only an amateur gets attacked from behind.
    Satisfiedhe was safe from ambush, he turned to face the front bedroom. Whatever had happened, whatever
it
was, it was in there. The thief took a deep breath, then stepped inside the darkened room.



6
    She dived further and further down, the brackish water filling her ears and nostrils. She was far below the surface now and already running out of breath, but she didn’t waver. Strange lights illuminated the lake bed, rendering it diaphanous and beautiful, tempting her deeper still.
    Now she was clawing her way through the thick weeds that clung to the bottom. Visibility was poor, the going hard, her lungs were bursting. They said he was here, so where was he? There was a rusting pram, an old shopping trolley, even an oil drum, but no sign of …
    Suddenly she knew she’d been tricked. He wasn’t here. She turned to make for the surface. But she didn’t move. She craned her head round to see that her left leg was stuck in the weeds. She kicked with all her might, but the weeds wouldn’t yield. She was beginning to feel faint now, couldn’t hold out much longer,