Read Online Nirvana Bites by Debi Alper - Free Book Online Page B

I’d been expecting. The times they were a-changing, all right.
    When I got home, Stan was in my tiny kitchen brewing coffee. All this was a bit of a culture shock to me: up at seven – without having been out all night; a polite response from my fellow Nirvanans at said unearthly hour; a man in my kitchen, clad in boxer shorts and Elastoplasts. Only last night’s violence was familiar.
    My head felt fuzzy, like I’d been chain-smoking skunk all night. Even after a black coffee thick and strong enough to slice and chew, I was having trouble ordering my thoughts. Stan, for his part, was having trouble meeting my eyes. We seemed to come to a wordless compromise: he wouldn’t mention dropping the case if I didn’t; he wouldn’t mention whatever he had avoided mentioning last night and I wouldn’t rend him limb from limb. It was clear that trust between us was at an all-time low. But last night’s attack had locked us together in a deadly embrace that neither of us could break.
    Stan said he wanted to check on the penthouse. Funny how he never referred to it as home. I wasn’t happy about letting him out of my sight today, so suggested Ali and I accompany him in the transit. I wasn’t too happy about him being in my sight either, but I’d feel more comfortable if I could keep my eye on him.
    The scene in Docklands was as we had left it. Ali and I swept the wreckage of the aquarium into the dust sheet that had covered it, while Stan checked his mail. If there was anything untoward, he didn’t share it with us. He pressed ‘play’ on his answering machine. The first three messages were concerned colleagues at the Beeb, checking on his health. The next was from Catherine, demanding to know why he’d taken leave of absence without telling her. Stan clucked in annoyance.
    There was no build-up or preparation for what followed. With a letter, you can sometimes sense from the envelope that the contents could rock you. With the technological hardware that is an answering machine, you get no such warning. A guttural whisper, like that of a man with chronic bronchitis, invaded the room.
    â€˜Sta-an. Oh, Sta-an,’ it called in mocking tones. ‘Did you think it was all over? Did you really think that? Well, I’m calling to tell you, it’s not . Not by a l-o-n-g way.’ A wheezing cackle was cut short by a mechanical voice announcing the time: three o’clock that morning.
    Stan’s face was ashen. He stared at the machine as though stuck in a game of musical statues. I picked up the phone and punched 1471. Surprise, surprise. The caller withheld their number.
    I looked at Ali, who was staring with narrowed eyes at Stan, who was still transfixed by the answering machine. The sound of a key being inserted in the front door broke the spell. We all spun round. Stan whimpered. My heart was pounding and my throat constricted. My senses strained at the door, trying to penetrate the wood and see through to the other side. We heard fumbling, the key being withdrawn and another inserted. I turned wildly to Ali, who nodded at the door. We were both still holding our brooms.
    We moved to the door and instinct took over. Ali took up a position behind it and I stood on the other side, clutching the broom in both hands. Meanwhile, whoever was on the other side continued to try keys in the lock. I felt a trickle of sweat drip down between my shoulderblades. Stan whimpered again. As the door swung open, there was a roaring in my ears. The intruder stepped into the room.
    I leapt forward and clouted him on the side of the head with the broom. As he staggered sideways, Ali leapt round the door and grabbed him from behind, holding the broom handle tight against his throat.
    â€˜No!’ screamed Stan. ‘No! Stop! Don’t hurt him. It’s James.’
    Who?
    â€˜It’s James. It’s my son. Let him go.’
    Ali released his grip. Our victim fell