Read Online Nirvana Bites by Debi Alper - Free Book Online

scream. I wanted to fight him off with some spectacular martial-arts move. I wanted to beg. I wanted to swallow. I did none of these things on the grounds that any of them would bring my neck even closer to the blade.
    â€˜Listen, bitch,’ he growled. ‘You and your friends keep your noses out of our fucking business, right? This is the only warning you get. Understand?’
    I couldn’t nod, but he wasn’t moving, so I assumed he was waiting for a response.
    â€˜Erm,’ I croaked carefully. ‘Sure. Only – what is your fucking business?’
    The hand holding my hair jerked viciously forward and back, slamming my head against the bricks.
    â€˜It seems we’re going to have to teach you a lesson, bitch.’
    It’s weird what goes through your head at such a moment. There I was, about to die or at least be seriously damaged, and all I could think about was when had I had my last crap. If I had to die, there wasn’t much I could do about it. But I really didn’t want to be found lying in a pool of my own shit. It matters. Don’t ask me why.
    What happened next was far more terrifying for my assailants than it was for me. There was a dreadful screeching, followed by what sounded like a hundred hell-hounds escaping from Hades. My attackers shot off so fast I almost fell forward in their wake. They ran to the other end of the bridge, jumped into a parked car and were gone in a blink. Milliseconds later, they were followed by Tyson, dragging Derek Vance behind him at full pelt. Tyson continued with his Hound of the Baskervilles impersonation until he reached the patch of wasteland on the far side of the bridge, where he crouched and relieved himself of the desperately needed dump.
    I was still leaning against the brickwork. I didn’t quite trust my legs yet. Tyson stood and sniffed his trophy with pride before allowing Derek to lead him back under the bridge. Ignoring me completely, Derek leaned against the wall next to me and took a pack of cigarettes and a box of matches from his pocket. He lit one and exhaled slowly. Tyson, contented now, snuffled rabbit-like in the gutter.
    â€˜Could I have a cigarette please, Derek?’ I asked in a strange squeaky voice.
    â€˜You’ll have to pay,’ he replied, not looking at me.
    â€˜I’ve got no money on me. I’ll pay you tomorrow,’ I pleaded.
    Derek shook his head stubbornly. ‘Nope.’
    â€˜I’ll tell your mother you smoke,’ I threatened. Mean, but I was desperate. Mrs V was a chain-smoker, but for some inexplicable reason she would never allow her fifty-year-old son to touch a cigarette.
    Derek shot me a resentful look, but handed over his own cigarette and lit another for himself. Beggars can’t be choosers. We smoked in silence for a while until my body felt more like my own again. I chucked my butt on to the ground and tested a limb by stamping it out. It seemed I was functioning again.
    â€˜Good-night, Derek,’ I breathed and moved off. Derek didn’t move but Tyson rewarded me with a low growl.
    As I walked under the bridge there was a low cooing from the ironwork above me, followed by a heavy splat on my shoulder. First Stan. Then mystery assailants. Now a fucking pigeon. Tonight was certainly the night for being royally shat on from a great height.
    I stumbled back upstairs to the flat. I had only been gone about a quarter of an hour, but I felt like I had aged three hundred years. Stan was slumped on my cushions, watching a late night chat show. He turned to speak as I walked in, but then his jaw dropped and welded to his upper chest.
    â€˜Jesus Christ, Jen. What happened to you?’ he faltered.
    I looked in the mirror on the opposite wall. My hair looked like a bird’s nest that had played host to a particularly riotous party. I was pale and sweating. My face was streaked with dirt. A tiny trickle of blood crawled down the left side of my neck. And on my