Free Behind A Twisted Smile (Dark Minds Book 2) by Faith Mortimer Page B

him.
    Reaching the front door, I detected a whiff of something nasty, but I ignored it and grabbed a heavy vase from the hall table, shot back the bolts and opened the door. Everything happened quickly after that.
    “Hey!” I yelled, simultaneously drawing back my arm holding the vase and coshing him over the head and shoulder with it. I heard a muffled cry of pain, and the figure dropped what he was holding before darting through the gateway and making for the road.
    I cursed. If I had been wearing suitable footwear, instead of being barefoot, I would have given chase. As it was, I felt a sharp stab in my left heel and realised I had trodden on a piece of broken china. Fuming, I watched the intruder disappear down an alley opposite and knew he would soon be in a maze of lanes. Unless he was caught on CCTV, there wasn’t a hope in hell of apprehending him, police or otherwise.
    I turned towards the front of my flat, stumbling over something lying on the ground and saw it was an aerosol can. As I looked up and stared in horror, I was confronted by a complete wall of filthy slogans.
    I stood there shaking, reading in disbelief what had been sprayed in red paint on my window, bricks and door. Basically, I was labelled as a useless slutty fuck with a stinking come bucket of a vagina . Apparently, I didn’t worry whom I slept with, either…among other things. The absolute bastard!
    I stumbled towards the door, crept inside and pushed it shut behind me. It was then I recognised the stench I smelt earlier. Tacked on the inside of the door was a small basket covering the letterbox. Only this time, the basket didn’t contain letters. It was filled with an offensive, stinking, dog turd.
    I felt sick. My mouth filled with water, and I bent over and vomited again and again, until I was bringing up nothing but hot bitter bile.
     
     
    Chapter 11
    Although the police were sympathetic about my graffitied wall, they weren’t much help. The young constable sent from the station blushed a remarkable shade of red when he read the choice phrases, but apart from taking down the time and a description of the ‘artist’, he couldn’t give me any assurance that anyone would be arrested.
    He said all the usual things, agreeing how bad and grossly offensive it looked and how graffiti made the area appear neglected and could well encourage more anti-social behaviour and crime. Had I notified my insurance company, as it might be difficult and expensive to remove myself? He gave me no confidence whatsoever, and feeling thoroughly depressed by then, I couldn’t wait for him to leave.
    He finished by mentioning a couple of local acts outlawing graffiti: the Anti-Social Behaviour Act and the Criminal Damage Act. But as the fixed-penalty notice was less than a hundred pounds, I couldn’t see a lot of point in pursuing it.
    I explained how the culprit had run off into the labyrinth of alleyways and lanes in the locality.  The officer looked pensive, saying that because he was heavily disguised, it was a waste of time and manpower looking for him.
    “At least he didn’t try forcing an entry,” he said brightly. “No damage done.”
    I gave him my best withering look, and he bent over his notebook to cover his embarrassing blunder. “Well, Miss Waterford, as you’ve no idea who could have done this, I think I have all I need. I’ve got all your details. I’ll run it through the computer and check out our normal local graffiti artists, but this one’s work doesn’t ring any bells. I’d say it’s a one-off, an amateur. Graffiti artists take pride in their tagging, and this isn’t art in any shape or form.”
    “What about the dog’s mess he shoved through the letterbox?”
    “Sorry. I know you don’t want to hear this, but unfortunately, it does happen.”
    I closed the door on him and let my breath out in a deep sigh. I wasn’t going to talk to the insurance company; it would have taken far too long for someone to come out and