Read Online The Eyes of the Accused: A dark disturbing mystery thriller (The Ben Whittle Investigation Series Book 2) by Mark Tilbury - Free Book Online
Authors: Mark Tilbury
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two diabetes. As far as Frank was concerned, the doctor was just trying to spook him with fancy words. The quack had also tried to scare him with tales of heart disease, dangerously high blood pressure and poor circulation. The swine was like a medical version of the bogyman.
Question: Hey, Dumb Quack, I’ve got a bad back.
That’s because you’re carrying too much weight, Frank. Have you ever considered giving up everything you love?
Hey, Dumb Quack, I sawed off my finger at work.
That’s because you’re a lard-arse, Frank. Try starving yourself to death for a few weeks. The bleeding will stop in no time.
Frank took a Frank-shower: he peeled off his work-shirt and squirted Lynx deodorant under both arms. He looked in the mirror on his wardrobe door. His boobs were getting almost large enough to warrant a bra. All this extra weight was Dumb Quack’s fault in the first place for trying to get him to give up smoking. In the two months of pure hell which had accompanied abstention, Frank had compensated by snacking. The constant craving for nicotine had eventually driven him back to the weed. Yep. He was a failure. And a big fat failure to boot.
‘Soon as I get myself straight, I’m going to join a gym,’ Frank told his reflection.
His reflection didn’t look impressed. Next you’ll be telling me you managed to get it up without looking at your dirty films!
Frank shrugged. A man needed stimulation. Especially one who worked himself to the bone to make ends meet. But not for much longer. No, sir. Francis Arthur Crowley was on the verge of becoming a very wealthy man. He’d soon be able to leave this shit-shack and buy himself a nice little place down by the seaside. A guesthouse that offered endless opportunities. He’d watched a film once, where some dude had installed cameras in all the guest rooms to facilitate his urge to watch people going about their private business. The name of the film escaped him, but the sentiment didn’t. He got as horny as a rutting stag just thinking about it.
He put a shirt on before his physique spoiled his good mood. A nice black baggy one so Mother didn’t notice his weight and peck away at him like a chicken in a farmyard. Just because she made a broom handle look porky didn’t mean she had the right to be so damned sanctimonious. Sometimes Frank felt like wrapping his hands around her scrawny neck and throttling the life out of her. But he had bigger and better things to do than waste time delivering his mother into the arms of Jesus.
He buttoned up his shirt and grinned. For once in his life, the salmon were swimming upstream, and he was waiting with a dirty great net to haul ‘em in. He turned sideways and studied his belly in the mirror. Who said black was flattering? He still looked as if he was carrying twins. He lit a Marlboro and sucked smoke deep into his lungs. Maybe the nicotine would neutralise the fat.
He splashed Brut on his stubbly cheeks. He wasn’t going to shave and then go out in the cold. He had sensitive skin and his face would look like it had fallen victim to nappy rash. He squeezed into the only pair of jeans that still fitted him. He consoled himself with the fact that he’d soon be able to treat himself to a whole new wardrobe. Coupled with his future gym membership, Frank would be a new man come the New Year.
He smoked the cigarette down to its filter and dropped the butt into an empty beer can. There was nothing like money to lift the spirits. You could forget all that health and happiness crap; wealth put a smile on a man’s face and a spring in his step. Tonight’s payday wouldn’t be enough to keep him out of the bargain bins, but it would at least go some way to buying him some new threads. And keep him well-stocked with Special Brew. And maybe a few tubs of Ben and Jerry’s ice cream.
Dumb Quack will be pleased.
Dumb Quack could take a hike in the hills. A man needed something to ease all the stress and worry snapping at his
Question: Hey, Dumb Quack, I’ve got a bad back.
That’s because you’re carrying too much weight, Frank. Have you ever considered giving up everything you love?
Hey, Dumb Quack, I sawed off my finger at work.
That’s because you’re a lard-arse, Frank. Try starving yourself to death for a few weeks. The bleeding will stop in no time.
Frank took a Frank-shower: he peeled off his work-shirt and squirted Lynx deodorant under both arms. He looked in the mirror on his wardrobe door. His boobs were getting almost large enough to warrant a bra. All this extra weight was Dumb Quack’s fault in the first place for trying to get him to give up smoking. In the two months of pure hell which had accompanied abstention, Frank had compensated by snacking. The constant craving for nicotine had eventually driven him back to the weed. Yep. He was a failure. And a big fat failure to boot.
‘Soon as I get myself straight, I’m going to join a gym,’ Frank told his reflection.
His reflection didn’t look impressed. Next you’ll be telling me you managed to get it up without looking at your dirty films!
Frank shrugged. A man needed stimulation. Especially one who worked himself to the bone to make ends meet. But not for much longer. No, sir. Francis Arthur Crowley was on the verge of becoming a very wealthy man. He’d soon be able to leave this shit-shack and buy himself a nice little place down by the seaside. A guesthouse that offered endless opportunities. He’d watched a film once, where some dude had installed cameras in all the guest rooms to facilitate his urge to watch people going about their private business. The name of the film escaped him, but the sentiment didn’t. He got as horny as a rutting stag just thinking about it.
He put a shirt on before his physique spoiled his good mood. A nice black baggy one so Mother didn’t notice his weight and peck away at him like a chicken in a farmyard. Just because she made a broom handle look porky didn’t mean she had the right to be so damned sanctimonious. Sometimes Frank felt like wrapping his hands around her scrawny neck and throttling the life out of her. But he had bigger and better things to do than waste time delivering his mother into the arms of Jesus.
He buttoned up his shirt and grinned. For once in his life, the salmon were swimming upstream, and he was waiting with a dirty great net to haul ‘em in. He turned sideways and studied his belly in the mirror. Who said black was flattering? He still looked as if he was carrying twins. He lit a Marlboro and sucked smoke deep into his lungs. Maybe the nicotine would neutralise the fat.
He splashed Brut on his stubbly cheeks. He wasn’t going to shave and then go out in the cold. He had sensitive skin and his face would look like it had fallen victim to nappy rash. He squeezed into the only pair of jeans that still fitted him. He consoled himself with the fact that he’d soon be able to treat himself to a whole new wardrobe. Coupled with his future gym membership, Frank would be a new man come the New Year.
He smoked the cigarette down to its filter and dropped the butt into an empty beer can. There was nothing like money to lift the spirits. You could forget all that health and happiness crap; wealth put a smile on a man’s face and a spring in his step. Tonight’s payday wouldn’t be enough to keep him out of the bargain bins, but it would at least go some way to buying him some new threads. And keep him well-stocked with Special Brew. And maybe a few tubs of Ben and Jerry’s ice cream.
Dumb Quack will be pleased.
Dumb Quack could take a hike in the hills. A man needed something to ease all the stress and worry snapping at his
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