Sister Death (Acid Vanilla Series Book 4) by Matthew Hattersley (best short novels of all time txt) 📗

old stairwell and along the dark corridor towards the building’s main entrance when he heard her door open.

“Señor Flynn? Danny? You are leaving?”

He stopped, closing his eyes for a second in silent dismay, before turning around to see the kind face of Camila staring up at him. A look of confusion had crumpled her usual affable demeanour. Despite the hour she was fully dressed, wearing a flowing flower-patterned dress and her trademark black shawl.

“Sorry, yeah, something unexpected has come up,” he told her, trying to sound upbeat. “I need to get off. I’ve left this month’s rent in my room, plus a little extra for your troubles. Sorry about sneaking off like some thief in the night, didn’t want to disturb ya.”

The old lady’s face dropped. “Vaya. Vaya. Is a shame. You will be okay, Danny?”

Up to this point he’d been bouncing from foot to foot, eager to make his leave but now he paused and gave the woman his full attention. “Aye, don’t you worry about me. And thank you so much for your hospitality. You’re a fine lady, Camila.”

She beamed at him, her eyes sparkling in spite of her years. He knew her own son (Raoul, was it?) had died a decade or so earlier. Drugs. Heroin, to be exact, but wasn’t it always? She’d confided all this to Danny one night over a glass of local wine after he’d arrived home to find her sitting alone in the dark of the TV room with the box switched off. Since then they’d shared a few more nights like that, a few more glasses of wine, and had been company for each other. If only she knew the shitstorm coming his way she’d be heartbroken. A kind woman, she’d probably try and help. Not that she could.

No one could.

And that was one of the reasons why he had to leave right away. If that mad nun was still out there, his staying here put Camila in danger, and he wouldn’t do that. The old lady had been like a mother to him these last months. Cooked for him. Even did his laundry. It made leaving so abruptly all the more heart-wrenching.

“Tell you what,” he told her, forcing a smile. “When I get to where I’m going, I’ll drop you a line. Maybe we could write to each other? Or something…” He trailed off, feeling ridiculous.

“You be careful, peque,” she said, reaching up and holding his cheek. “Dios te bendiga.”

He closed his eyes, leaning his face into her soft hand. Time to go. With a straight back and puffed out chest he gave her an assertive nod, but with her looking at him now with a suspicious eye. Fair enough, she wasn’t stupid. And she could handle herself. If the nun came here looking for him she’d tell her he was long gone, no forwarding address, and that would be the end of it. No reprisals. He had to believe that.

Without another word he turned and marched towards the end of the corridor. One last glance back at the old woman, and then he yanked open the stiff wooden door and stepped out into the cool night air.

Eight

Back in London Acid Vanilla awoke with a start. A cursory examination of her surroundings told her she was in her own bed. That was something at least. A good sign. She ran her tongue around her mouth and lips, trying to piece together the last twenty-four hours. Hell, the last forty-eight, the last two-hundred. The days and nights all swam together like a terrible psychedelic dream. The parts she remembered, anyway. As reality hits, the insanity grows.

She peered out into the darkness of her room as swirls of grey morphed grossly into the vision of her poor mother. Her eyes were open like they had been that night. Empty and lifeless. But unlike that night she was surrounded by a cauldron of demons, laughing, chattering, baring their teeth, morphing now into more human forms. Davros, Spitfire, Magpie. All of them laughing at her, at her mother’s rotting form, mocking her. Raaz Terabyte there too now, and the Sinister Sisters, but all of them engulfed by the bulk of him – her nemesis and mentor, Beowulf Caesar. She reached out, hands clawing at the manifestation of her pain. Another blink, a cry, and the scene faded to grey.

She shook her head. Fully awake now. Casting out an exploratory arm, she was surprised and relieved to find she’d had the foresight to bring a pint of water to bed with her. Rolling onto her side she drank it down in one go, spilling some of it onto the grubby bed clothes but caring little. In truth she was still trying to work out what had happened prior to her being here. Was there something she should remember? If she closed her eyes, focused her attention, she sensed the shadow of a recollection, hovering there on the cusp of her awareness like the memory of a forgotten film. And why the hell was she awake at this hour?

She flung the hot duvet aside and swung her legs off the bed, listening intently now. There it was again. Footsteps, for sure. Someone moving around. She closed her eyes to better focus on her hearing and get a locality on the steps moving from the front room and along the hallway towards the stairs. She heard the creak of wood second step from the bottom. It always did it, and Spook had wanted to rip it up, but Acid told her no. She knew the value of an early warning system. For moments exactly like now.

Whoever this was, they were half-way up the stairs now. She rocked onto the balls of her feet and crept on unsteady legs to the bedroom door. Her head was banging and her mouth tasted like she’d been licking battery acid, but she was certain now she wasn’t dreaming, wasn’t in the midst of some alcohol-induced narcosis. This was happening. It