Dead Pretty by Roger Granelli Page A

meant there’d been no grandparents for him. Julie’s mother had never come to terms with Julie’s early pregnancy or her choice of men and when she moved to the estate their relationship became even more distant. Mark had grown up thinking this was normal. Julie’s father had died a few years back but her mother was still around. Mark hadn’t seen her since Shane went, and doubted that Julie had. A difficult line of communication, stretched by guilt and blame, finally snapped with Shane. It made no sense to go down there, it hadn’t made sense seeing Tony. Mark wasn’t sure if he was playing for time, or just pissing into the wind.
    Julie had been impressed with Lena, and a little surprised that she was with Mark. They’d all drunk too much, and the two women cried over Shane. How do you stand it, Lena asked, then cursed herself for the drunken stupidity of her question. Because we have to, Mark told her, we’ve always had to. ‘Hang on to her’ was the last thing Julie said to him, ‘if you can’.
    He couldn’t. Mark needed a drink. He needed a drink badly, he wanted to lose himself in it, to punish himself with booze, so that his thoughts might be wiped out for a few hours. He saw no need to go undercover now. If he was being watched, so be it. He didn’t know what the fuck was going on anyway, so any development would be welcome. He put the rest of his money back in the tin, it was probably safer in the flat than on him, especially if he got drunk. He went to the Queen’s Head, even Kelly might be company this night. The Irishman’s watering hole was a Victorian pub, and little in it had changed in a hundred years; no one had thought it worthy of a makeover.
    Kelly was there, he was always there, watching the racing on the telly. If he was nervous to see Mark he didn’t show it.
    â€˜Sit down, Mr Richards. I just won sixty quid. That nag there, Poison Whisky.’ Kelly dabbed a finger at his newspaper. ‘Had to bet on that, didn’t I? I’ve drunk enough of the stuff in my time. Eh, do you want me for anything, Mr Richards?’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜Shall I get us some drinks?’
    â€˜OK.’
    Kelly was buzzing. He’s enjoyed the last few days, Mark thought, it’s been lucrative for him. Now he thinks I’m his friend. Now he thinks that I want to drink with him. Well, he’s right on the second count, I’m that desperate. Kelly brought back two pints and two large chasers.
    â€˜Get that down you, Mr Richards. You’re going through a bad patch, I can tell. Dunno why though, with a piece like that Lena. Where is she anyway, ain’t seen her for a while. Eh, you ’avn’t had a fight, ’ave you?’
    Kelly’s thin face broke into a grin, each tooth trying to outdo the next in crumbling decay. Mark drank the whisky first. One quick gulp and it was down, searing his chest like hot iron. He was barely aware of Kelly’s rambling talk. It was humid, almost fetid, in the pub. The oppressive air of the underclass. Mark remembered the books he sometimes looked at in the houses he’d targeted, the ones with lots of pictures in them. This pub reminded him of a book he’d actually taken from the house of one of his school teachers, that weed who taught history. An old book full of dust, and lots of little sketches by someone called Hogarth. It was from another time but the people he drew were in here now. Same wasted, wizened faces, darting eyes, people at the bottom fighting for any scraps that might filter down, kept going by boozy dreams. Though it was risky, Mark had kept that book in his bedroom for a while, cutting out the sketches and pinning them on his wall. Somehow they made him feel better.
    Another race was taking place and punters offered encouragement to their nags. It was the nearest most of them got to energy. Smoke gathered in grey clouds shot with fresher blue near