The Love of the Dead Read Online Free PDF Page B

had a pretty easy smile, but she got the impression he’d had to dust it off.
    “You never find anything, right?”
    “Well, he’s bound to make a mistake.”
    “On what evidence?”
    He blushed again. “You’re right. That’s the pat answer. Policeman basics. If you can’t break a case, hope and pray they make a mistake.”
    “He won’t. You’ve got to look elsewhere.”
    She could tell him. Right now. Tell him what she knew. It didn’t matter how brave she tried to be, she was scared.
    “Like where?”
    “Look at the mediums. The ones he’s killed. Find out who they knew. Who they’re connected to. Maybe you can protect them.”
    “And catch him that way.”
    He looked like he was going to add that they’d thought of that. Of course he had. He was a policeman. It was his job. Her job was speaking to the dead. Not being some kind of freebee consultant to the police. And whatever this gig was, she was out.
    “Anyway,” he said, and waved the bag. “I’ll leave you in peace.”
    The Xbox came on from the living room.
    “Peace?” she said with a dazzling smile. “Peace is what you pray for. Kids are what you get.”
    “Can I say hello?”
    “Better not. He’s testy. Hormones. I don’t know.”
    “Fair enough.”
    She saw him out. Let her breath out.
    The Xbox went off and a plate smashed in the kitchen.
    “Miles, I’m sorry, okay? He’s gone. It’s okay. It’s okay .”
    She went into the kitchen and got the dustpan and brush to clear away the shards of broken pottery. Miles sure as hell wasn’t going to do it.

     
     
     

Chapter Twelve

     
    That night Beth got so drunk she couldn’t see straight. Miles was a nightmare, a complete little bastard, stomping about, rotten as a teenager.
    So she sat on the back porch, at a worn wooden table. She watched a seagull watching her.
    “You’re a brave one,” she said.
    She toasted it and wished she could borrow a little courage.
    As it was she just had her drink.
    She left the lights on in the house behind her to give her some light to see her cigarette and whiskey. She smoked and drank, but mostly she drank.
    The bottle of whiskey started out halfway down and ended up the best part of empty.
    She made it through a pack of ten cigarettes, but they were crackers and the whiskey was the cheese.
    She giggled as she thought about whiskey being cheese. She could still giggle. She wasn’t dead. She wasn’t mental. She just saw dead people. But there was no need to think about that right now. What she needed was to stop thinking about dead people, about murderers, about a tower of Tarot cards, falling down.
    Drink cures all ills.
    And she was ill, she knew. She was ill and drink was the only thing that could cure it. So she drank, and for a while she felt better. She drank some more until she could safely say she was hammered. When she went back into the house she could hardly see where she was going. She bounced off every wall and every piece of furniture on the way to bed. Laid down, the room spinning.
    Thought about throwing up, but if you’re a proper drunk and not just fucking about at it like some kid going to Wetherspoon’s on the weekend, you didn’t throw up. Throwing up was a waste.
    So she didn’t moan. She didn’t puke. She didn’t feel bad, because this was her being better. She was better when she couldn’t see and she couldn’t hear the voices or see the dead people that watched her until she fell asleep and waited for her when she woke up.
    She went to bed so drunk she didn’t hear Miles trashing the house, and if she had, she wouldn’t have cared at-fucking-all.
    She went to bed drunk and she was better. She woke up drunk, but it wasn’t better anymore. Becky came calling, and it was worse in every way.

     
     
     
     

Chapter Thirteen
     
     
    Thursday 13 th November
     
    Beth sat down in the chair that would be her guest’s so she could see what they would see. The kitchen table, covered in a red check cloth. A thick