Sister Death (Acid Vanilla Series Book 4) Matthew Hattersley (the false prince .TXT) 📖

curtains were drawn, but she could see the orange glow of the streetlights through a crack. The nights were drawing in, getting dark early. In more ways than one.

She was sipping at her tea, wondering whether she had the courage to go upstairs and check on Acid, when someone knocked on the front door. She sat up, heart already pounding. Apart from the odd delivery driver, they never had visitors. She scurried out the room as the knocking continued and called up the stairs, doing that stage-whispering thing – where you want to be heard, but kind of don’t at the same time.

“Acid? Are you expecting anyone?”

No answer. The knocking went again. More forceful now.

“Acid?”

The music faded down a few notches and she held her breath, eyes fixed on Acid’s bedroom door handle, just visible from the bottom of the stairs. But a second later the volume rose louder.

The front door went again. Heavy blows now. The bottom of a fist, it sounded like. Spook tiptoed down the short hallway. If this was someone wanting to kill them, one of Acid’s old colleagues, they wouldn’t knock, would they? Would they? It seemed reasonable to think not, logical even, but it didn’t stop her shaking any less as she placed her cheek against the gloss finish of the door.

“Who is it?” she whimpered. But there was no answer.

With her stomach in knots and with a shaking hand, she turned the keys in the mortice locks, top and bottom, before sliding back the chain. Finally, she placed her hand on the latch of the Yale lock and eased open the front door.

“Oh.”

She had no idea who she was expecting to see standing on the front step, but it certainly wasn’t the small man in a long crimson overcoat and a dark green trilby. Rain ran along the brim of the hat and dripped onto his shoulders as he raised his head to look at her. Despite his thick white hair and heavily lined face, there was a certain youthfulness to him. But it was his piercing blue eyes that sent a shiver down her spine.

“Is Acid Vanilla here?” he rasped, in a strong Irish accent.

“She’s… Well, I mean…” she stammered. “Maybe. Who are you, sorry?”

The man sniffed. “The name’s Jimmy O’Rourke. But you might have heard of me by my old name – The Dullahan.” He nodded, smiling joylessly at the recognition he must have seen in Spook’s eyes. “That’s right. So, ya understand, I need to speak to Acid. I need her help. Urgently.”

Four

The Dullahan glared at the girl – who he already knew to be Spook – as another droplet of rainwater ran down his back. Acid’s friend or not, he’d had one shitter of a day and if she didn’t invite him inside soon, things weren’t going to go well for her.

“Am I coming in then, or what?”

“Uh, sorry,” she stammered, as he bustled past her. “I’m just shocked to see you here. I mean, I know who you are. Acid’s told me all about you.”

“Aye, well I won’t ask if it was all good stuff, because I doubt it was.” The words were lost on her. He waited for her to lock up the front door and tried again. “So, is our mutual friend home?”

“Yeah, she is. Well, sort of,” she replied, taking the offered trilby and overcoat and holding them in front of her like they were a bomb about to go off. “Why don’t you come through?”

She scampered past him and through a door that led off from the narrow hallway. The Dullahan glanced up the stairs, hearing music drifting down from the door on the landing, before following on behind.

“This is where Acid Vanilla has been living for the last year? Jesus, Mary and Joseph.” He scanned the room, taking in the net curtains, the dirty magnolia paint on the walls and ceiling, the threadbare carpet. “What the feck is she playing at?”

“We didn’t plan on being here that long,” Spook mumbled. “But any plans we had have gone to hell recently.”

“I see.”

“Have a seat.” She nodded eagerly at a choice of grimy sofa or grimy armchair. “Do you want a drink of anything?”

“Oh, aye, cup of tea would be grand,” he said, opting for the armchair. “Milk and two.”

Spook stared at him for a moment before spinning on her heels and darting out the room, still clutching his coat and hat. He waited a moment, getting to his feet and walking over to the window to peer through the curtains, already cursing himself for having his driver, Mickey, set off back to Manchester so soon. He’d actually wanted to stay parked up, just in case, but The Dullahan had insisted. Acid was a friend (these days, at least) and she owed him. His plan was to stay here tonight, explain what he needed from her, and then catch a train back sometime tomorrow. But something already felt off and he wondered if he might regret not having the extra muscle a big lad like Mickey provided.

“Here we go.” Spook again, shuffling in holding two mugs of hot drink. “Two sugars, yeah?”

“Aye. So where is Acid?” he asked, cutting down any more small talk. “Like I say, I need to speak to her, urgently.” He watched the kid as she did everything she could to avoid eye contact. “What is it?”

“She’s upstairs,” she said softly. “But I’m not sure how much sense you’ll get out of her.”

“How’s that?”

“Umm…” Spook stared into the mugs of tea. “She’s not been well. To put it mildly. Here.”

She handed him one of the mugs and he took it in two hands, twisting it around until he found the handle. The mug was red-hot, but his old hands, covered as they were in calluses and scar tissue, hardly felt it. “So what is it? Serious?”

“Not physically. Depression, I’d say. She’s in a real pit. Nothing seems to be able to get through to her. All she’s done for the