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There’s a skinny dark kid there when you open the door.

“Hey, Mrs Rix.   Is Brandon at home?”

Sure you’re still a bit hazy from the last hit and the morning’s vodka, but you don’t like his tone.   The question is, though – do you lie to him or not?

“Actually he’s gone.   Fortnight ago.   Packed a bag, skipped his last physical therapy session, and left.   Didn’t even leave a note, doesn’t care if I worry myself sick; ungracious, unfeeling little shit, just like his father…”

Kid is now looking at you too closely.   Maybe you said too much – tried too hard.

“Okay.   Thanks for that, lady.   I’ll come back some other time.”

 He smiles as you shut the door.


        *        *        *        *        *


Your wall phone rings.

“Hey Daisy – it’s me, Jonathon.”

“This isn’t your usual number, and you don’t sound like yourself.   I’ve told you not to call me anymore.”

“My phone got stolen.   Daisy: Brix has your number, and he’s been watching too many Buffy reruns.   Seriously.   He’s the one who killed your boy Dwayne: he’s the one you should be hating.   Come on – can we please talk about it?   I’m outside your place now, just where we met.”

“No.   This won’t work, old man.   You’re up to something – I hear it in your voice.   Don’t call here again.”

You hang up the phone, and look over at your visitor, smiling.

“That went well.   Honestly, he’s a walking cliche, isn’t he?   I’m ready now.”




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