PRETTY GIRLS MAKE GRAVES: a gripping crime thriller (Camden Noir Crime Thrillers Trilogy Book 1) by JOHN YORVIK Page A
Authors: JOHN YORVIK
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you see
What you’re doing to me
When you don’t believe a word I say?
So, if an old friend I know
Stops by to say hello
Would I still see suspicion in your eyes?
Lighting another cigarette, I began to think it through, discounting paranoia and false memory and looking for the most probable explanation. Marty could have been lying low because of something unrelated to my situation: a business deal, a stomach bug. Now, knowing nothing about my troubles, he wanted to meet up. But wait a minute, how did he even know this was my number? I hadn’t done anything but call his phone with my pay-as-you-go. I left no messages and sent no texts.
Don’t you know I’m caught in a trap
I can’t walk out
Because I love you too much baby
Just then, the yellow door swung open again, and three students walked into the room. One of them was wearing a gorilla mask. Another was carrying a large camera. What was this? Halloween? I didn’t like it. I pulled my hat down lower on my head and turned to face the couple that were sitting at the other end of my table. I glanced back and saw the masked man aping around, provoking hysterics from the crowd as his friend took photos. Finally he sat down with his back to me, hoisted his mask up onto his head so he could drink. I couldn’t see his face.
After another twenty minutes, I decided to check out the ape man’s face. I drank up and walked over to their table. Standing behind him, I tapped him on the shoulder. But before turning around, he pulled down his mask. Then he stood in front of me, beat his chest and started to dance. He took me by the hands and tried to waltz with me but I shook him away.
“Take off your mask,” I shouted.
“If you take off yours,” he replied, as if alluding to some profound truth.
Just a student, I concluded. And made to leave as the singer was finishing Blue Suede Shoes .
“Ou-Where are you go-ing?” the singer asked, mock-offended, in a heavy French accent.
“Home. Got work tomorrow.”
“Sit down, I play you a song. C’mon! De night is just star-ting,” he implored.
“Listen to French Elvis. Sit down,” came a shout from a table of students.
“Screw work,” shouted someone else.
“Drink, drink, drink,” a chorus began.
I shook my head and turned to see the gorilla mask looking at me across a crowd of dancers, waving me over. But I’d had enough. I hurried out of the kebab house to boos and jeers.
Out on the street a tall athletic-looking man, also wearing a blue beanie hat, asked me for a light. I shrugged and told him I didn’t smoke. He punched me in the stomach and forced my arm behind my back, pushing me into an alleyway. I was gasping for air, trying to free myself from the man’s grip, when out of the darkness came his accomplice who began searching me. The first man pushed my arm further up my back, so I stopped struggling worried he’d break my arm. The second man felt my knife as he patted my side. He had started unzipping my pocket when I saw out of the corner of my eye the gorilla mask walking towards us.
“You’d better fuck right off now,” said the guy holding my arm, in an accent I was beginning to recognise as Polish. His accomplice pulled a knife and held it to my throat. The cold blade against my throat made me gulp repeatedly. The word Zabeej came back to me from that night on Old Street. I tried to say it, but could make no sound. I was muted by fear. The man in the gorilla mask didn’t speak, but folded his arms as if he was prepared to wait it out. I waited, too, immobilised by the blade. My senses were heightened. My primitive brain had taken over and I was hit by the putrid smell of the back-alley bins, the tobacco on beanie-hat’s breath, the beery sweat of the gorilla and my own smell of fear. I heard the grit move under beanie-hat’s trainers as he began to press the blade harder to my throat. Just then a siren howled as a police car pulled up at the end of the alley. In the
What you’re doing to me
When you don’t believe a word I say?
So, if an old friend I know
Stops by to say hello
Would I still see suspicion in your eyes?
Lighting another cigarette, I began to think it through, discounting paranoia and false memory and looking for the most probable explanation. Marty could have been lying low because of something unrelated to my situation: a business deal, a stomach bug. Now, knowing nothing about my troubles, he wanted to meet up. But wait a minute, how did he even know this was my number? I hadn’t done anything but call his phone with my pay-as-you-go. I left no messages and sent no texts.
Don’t you know I’m caught in a trap
I can’t walk out
Because I love you too much baby
Just then, the yellow door swung open again, and three students walked into the room. One of them was wearing a gorilla mask. Another was carrying a large camera. What was this? Halloween? I didn’t like it. I pulled my hat down lower on my head and turned to face the couple that were sitting at the other end of my table. I glanced back and saw the masked man aping around, provoking hysterics from the crowd as his friend took photos. Finally he sat down with his back to me, hoisted his mask up onto his head so he could drink. I couldn’t see his face.
After another twenty minutes, I decided to check out the ape man’s face. I drank up and walked over to their table. Standing behind him, I tapped him on the shoulder. But before turning around, he pulled down his mask. Then he stood in front of me, beat his chest and started to dance. He took me by the hands and tried to waltz with me but I shook him away.
“Take off your mask,” I shouted.
“If you take off yours,” he replied, as if alluding to some profound truth.
Just a student, I concluded. And made to leave as the singer was finishing Blue Suede Shoes .
“Ou-Where are you go-ing?” the singer asked, mock-offended, in a heavy French accent.
“Home. Got work tomorrow.”
“Sit down, I play you a song. C’mon! De night is just star-ting,” he implored.
“Listen to French Elvis. Sit down,” came a shout from a table of students.
“Screw work,” shouted someone else.
“Drink, drink, drink,” a chorus began.
I shook my head and turned to see the gorilla mask looking at me across a crowd of dancers, waving me over. But I’d had enough. I hurried out of the kebab house to boos and jeers.
Out on the street a tall athletic-looking man, also wearing a blue beanie hat, asked me for a light. I shrugged and told him I didn’t smoke. He punched me in the stomach and forced my arm behind my back, pushing me into an alleyway. I was gasping for air, trying to free myself from the man’s grip, when out of the darkness came his accomplice who began searching me. The first man pushed my arm further up my back, so I stopped struggling worried he’d break my arm. The second man felt my knife as he patted my side. He had started unzipping my pocket when I saw out of the corner of my eye the gorilla mask walking towards us.
“You’d better fuck right off now,” said the guy holding my arm, in an accent I was beginning to recognise as Polish. His accomplice pulled a knife and held it to my throat. The cold blade against my throat made me gulp repeatedly. The word Zabeej came back to me from that night on Old Street. I tried to say it, but could make no sound. I was muted by fear. The man in the gorilla mask didn’t speak, but folded his arms as if he was prepared to wait it out. I waited, too, immobilised by the blade. My senses were heightened. My primitive brain had taken over and I was hit by the putrid smell of the back-alley bins, the tobacco on beanie-hat’s breath, the beery sweat of the gorilla and my own smell of fear. I heard the grit move under beanie-hat’s trainers as he began to press the blade harder to my throat. Just then a siren howled as a police car pulled up at the end of the alley. In the
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