Cry For Help by Steve Mosby

By Steve Mosby

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He was standing in different woods, and there was gunshot that I'd never heard but had been real, and then there was the memory of a policeman, kneeling down beside me in my bedroom and talking to me gently, telling me that my brother was dead. Chapter Six Friday 19th August The day two years before when Sam Currie had gone to his son's house in the Grindlea Estate had been a warm August day, much like this one. The slate-coloured sky had been free of clouds, the hazy sun like a coin dissolving behind blurred glass.

That solid, strong man now looked pigeonchested and frail: hunched over slightly, like something in his back had gone. The old muscles hung down like slack, useless cords. His eyes still held that cruelty, but even there one of them seemed dislocated and wrong, as though it had been taken out and replaced at an odd angle. Currie's unease intensified. ' He held up his badge. 'Detective Currie, Detective Swann. ' Frank Carroll stared at him. Currie felt an absurd urge to scratch himself. ' He shot Swann a glance as they followed Carroll into his flat, closing the door behind them - then grimaced as the stench of the place hit him properly.

At this time of night the shops were either closed or closing up, but the walkways were still busy with people cutting through after work: suits and students. From one open storey above, beyond the escalators, I could hear the sounds of the cinema crowds and the chatter of slot machines. Nearby, a waitress stacked plates on her arm and carried them in from the terrace, while a lanky security guard meandered past. ' Tori nudged me on the shoulder, and I turned around. 'Hey,' I said. ' She smiled.

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