Free A Reason to Kill by Jane A. Adams Page B

terrifyingly long time since he’d just been to see a friend.
    Angry now that he was so morose; morose because he was angry and to no purpose, Mac walked swiftly on, turning left at the crossroads before he reached the lower end of Newell Street and was walking a parallel course to the promenade. Here between the houses it was sheltered and not so bitingly cold.
    â€˜Your own fault,’ Mac muttered to himself. ‘You’ve not exactly tried, have you?’
    Self-consciously, he glanced around, glad that the cold had kept even the hardiest of souls inside and there was no one to hear. Up ahead of him the lights of the Railway pub twinkled enticingly. Mac drew level with it on the opposite side of the road, stared through the half opened curtains at the Friday-night crowd, recalling that the victims of two of the burglaries were regulars there.
    Should he go inside? He’d been meaning to anyway, get the lie of the land, ask a few meaningful questions. Irresolute, he crossed the road and loitered on the pavement. An A-frame sign toppled over by the wind advertised a quiz night every Thursday at seven. Mac righted it, noting the smaller notice tacked alongside that appealed for new competitors.
    Mac thought about it. Maybe he should go in and ask. Maybe that would be the perfect way to get involved with the local community. Maybe even a way to … Mac balked at the phrase ‘make friends’.
    A quiz team? Mac turned away. What the hell did he know about quiz teams? Irrationally irritated, he walked back the way he’d come. He was cold now, despite the coat and gloves and tightly wound scarf. His ears were stinging and his eyes running as he strode towards Newell Street. The wind had changed direction, veering so that it was directly in his face as he headed home. Mac lowered his head, blinking wind and dust and cold sea spray from his eyes.
    Once inside, he closed the door against the world and hung his damp coat on the back of a chair to dry. Then, standing at the centre of his barren living room, Mac made himself a promise. Things would change, he told himself. Tomorrow he’d go along, sign up for the Thursday night battle in the Railway, make the effort, but his heart sank at the thought of it and his shoulders sagged beneath the weight of so small but heavy a decision. Sighing, Mac switched the television on and settled on the lumpy sofa, marking time until it was late enough to sleep, unreasonably eager for the working day to begin again.
    George Parker was alone in his room. Karen had phoned to say she wouldn’t be back that night but she’d promised to be home after work on Saturday and that she’d stay to cook Sunday lunch.
    â€˜I need to talk to you,’ George told her.
    â€˜What’s wrong? Is Mum OK?’
    â€˜Yeah, she’s fine. It’s … something else, but it’s important, Kaz.’
    He heard her stifle a small sigh. ‘OK, little brother, I’ll sort you out tomorrow. Promise ya.’
    George stared at the portable TV he had set up on the flat-pack desk in the corner of his room. He’d done his homework, early for once. Anything to take his mind off all the other stuff. From downstairs he could hear his mother watching some late-night chat thing in the living room. She’d sit there until she was finally exhausted enough to drop off and quite often George would find her still there in the morning, the TV talking to itself, his mother oblivious on the couch. He’d taken to wandering down about midnight, covering her with a blanket so she didn’t wake up cold. He never disturbed her, never. Not even to suggest she’d be more comfortable in bed. She found it so hard to sleep anyway, especially now the doctor had told her he wouldn’t give her any more pills, and George would never dream of disturbing what little rest she managed to get.
    He’d found an action film to watch – all loud explosions and no plot