Free Bedlam by B.A. Morton Page A

see if Curtis is home.”
    “Just don’t go after dark.”
    “Why not?”
    “Some funny buggers hang out down there. I’d hate to read about you in the obituary column. Not while you still owe me for damages.”
    “Don’t worry, I’ll take a torch.”
    There was a pause, filled only by the noise of the taxi indicating as it drew in alongside the kerb.
    “Hey, Joey,” continued Minkey, “are you okay? You sound … different. More messed up than usual, or maybe just sober?”
    McNeil reached across and paid the driver. As he slammed the door and watched the vehicle pull away, he turned his attention back to Minkey.
    “Having a bad one, Minkey, and just working my way through it. Sometimes it’s hard. Today it’s a killer.”
    “Yeah, well, hang in there, Joey, and like I said, watch your back.”
     

Chapter Twelve  
     
    It had to be there somewhere. He’d kept all her things carefully, just as she’d left them, waiting for her return, but now they were scattered all over the bedroom floor, clothes abandoned along with their hangers, shoes missing their pairs, thrown to one side as he upended every box and pulled out every drawer from bottom to top. He dropped to his knees, frustration getting the better of him. The need for a drink had him sweating. The need for the truth outweighed even that.
    “Please, Kit, you have to help me here, sweetheart,” he murmured. “I can’t do this on my own. I can’t work it out. I’m trying. Believe me, I’m trying.”
    He didn’t expect a reply, but when even her soft voice in his head remained silent, he lashed out at the night stand, smashing the flimsy wood and opening up the old wound across his knuckles. He swung his gaze dispiritedly from his bloody hand to the wrecked cupboard. Amidst the splintered wood was the box he’d been looking for.
    He smiled sadly. The small pine box had seen better days. Chipped paint and a crooked hinge. The engraved flowers on the lid were worn to the point where they could barely be seen. He’d tried to surprise her with a new one, but she’d declined the gift with a soft smile and a gentle kiss that he could still feel, warm and fleeting, as if she’d brushed past and pressed a smile against his lips. A childhood gift crafted by an uncle, the box was as much a part of her past as the memories inside. It had meant so much to her, he couldn’t believe that he’d forgotten its location. He was doing a lot of that lately - forgetting. So distraught at her loss, so intent on finding her, he was starting to lose sight of what they’d shared. Overcome with sudden self-doubt and weary resignation, he leaned back against the bed and opened the lid.
    Once, when new, the little ballerina inside would have danced. Now the mechanism was tired, the key lost and the ballerina remained in the prone position. He knew how that felt. It was some time since he’d been fully wound and ready to go.
    With some reluctance, he pulled out the contents, a mixture of cheap jewellery and keepsakes that meant a lot to Kit but very little to anyone else. A first concert ticket, a wrist band from a music festival, earrings in the shape of tiny stars, a button from her favourite coat, the first brownie badge she’d ever earned and a small collection of photos - photo-booth snaps of them both acting the fool. He recalled the occasion vividly and smiled at the memory. On the back she’d written, 'Kit loves JoJo xx.'  
    Kit was the only one who’d called h im that - until today. No one else would have dared. She had gotten under his skin and had a way of whispering it that made his heart quicken with anticipation.
    He dug deeper in the box. He wasn’t looking for memories, he was looking for the charm bracelet she always wore, the bracelet that had found its way back to him in an evidence bag, blood-stained and broken, the only thing left from that fateful evening.
    Holding the fragile chain up to the light, he studied the broken links. It had been