Chapter 36


    The climb to Juliana’s apartment isn’t difficult, even in the low evening light. I’ve done it once before, so


    I already have my bearings and know exactly which way to go. My target is thedy’s bedroom.


    If I find her in there, I can cut the head from the serpent on the spot. If I don’t, I can wait for an


    opportunity to do so.


    Knowing that there’s likely to be anything from half a dozen to twenty men in the next room, I’m happier


    now that I have the rifle slung over my shoulder. The Glock too isforting, sitting in its holster under


    my jacket, and with plenty of spare magazines in one pocket.


    With a knife, a KA-BAR, in its usual spot, the sheath to the back, I’mfortable that I’m good for any


    up-close resistance. But I have spares, a small switchde strapped to one calf, and an A-F fighting


    knife to the other. A length of cheese wire is a lightweight addition, pinned inside my belt.


    Ast-minute addition is the tyre iron shoved into the belt. It doubles as weapon and means-of-entry,


    but shifts disconcertingly as I move, threatening to work loose, and I’m cursing myself for not holstering


    it properly.


    From street level as I begin my climb, I can see the apartment is brightly lit. Every window shines out


    onto the street, Juliana’s bedroom included. But there’s no movement beyond the lights; none of the


    shifting shadows of people walking around the room. A flickering blue light suggests a TV might be


    ying, but there’s none of the human activity that might apany it.


    Four floors up: I swing up and over the balcony edge, then immediately drop to the floor, ducking out of


    sight of any prying eyes. As it turns out, I don’t need the iron. Juliana’s door stands open to the night


    air, with no more than a mosquito screen separating outdoors from indoors


    Moving carefully, quietly, cing my feet with care, I dart a look inside, but it’s unupied.


    It’s still the same rat’s-nest tangle of bling and junk. The bed is unmade and, although a double, looks


    to have been upied only by one.


    The rifle in my hands, I slip inside. Two doors - the first to the dressing room I saw on my first visit here.


    I set it ajar, just in case I need to slip out of sight quickly.


    The second door, leading to the lounge beyond, stands closed.


    Then, rifle in hand, I stand and listen…


    Nothing.


    Street traffic: check.


    Cicadas: check.


    Human activity… not a thing, not even the sound of the TV I thought might be ying.


    The muzzle of the rifle hanging low, I inch my way to the lounge door, cocking my ear.


    Still nothing.


    Slowly, cautiously, muzzle aimed outward, I turn the handle, peer through the crack…


    Three secondster, I lower the gun and step through…


    … into a ughterhouse.


    In fairness, it’s a tidy ughterhouse, with none of the mess and gore one might normally associate


    with such a ce. Perhaps ughterhouse is the wrong word. But I don’t have another.


    Some of the faces I recognize. I saw them on my first visit. A couple of others are new. Most are men


    in, as they say, their prime. Some are middle-aged. One looks barely out of his teens, perhaps freshly


    recruited. He was probably a handsomed while he was still walking about.


    But all of them lie, in twisted and contorted angles; faces are blotched red, eyes sightless and staring,


    but the pupils huge. The room reeks of the vomit which trails from mouths, over clothes, furniture and


    flooring.


    The TV ys with the sound turned low, some sit acted out by fake smiles, stic faces and


    cannedughter. It feels… inappropriate… and with the toe of my boot, I nudge the plug free from its


    socket.


    I find one body in the bathroom, a ss of something on the washstand which, when I tentatively test it


    with the tip of a finger, then the tip of my tongue, is brine…


    Trying to make himself throw it up?


    Wonder what she used?


    And how she got it down all of them at once?


    In fact, thest part doesn’t take too much thought. Beer sses lie scattered everywhere; some with


    their contents half-consumed, others spilled and empty.


    Why?


    They were on her side…


    … weren’t they?


    Outlived their usefulness?


    Sheer spite?


    Boredom?


    Unsettled, I hover…


    What to do next?


    Back in the bedroom, I make a quick search, brieflyparing what I saw on the previous visit, with


    what’s here now. In truth, it’s hard to see the difference in the magpie’s nest of stuff. But on an impulse.


    I open the bedside drawer where I found the one book in the room: Juliana’s handbook on Poisonous


    and Psychoactive nts, stuffing it into a pocket.


    Perhaps I’ll gain some insight into her way of thinking…


    N?velD(ram)a.?rg owns this content.


    On the other hand, I’m not sure I want to examine too closely the contents of Juliana’s psyche.


    Anything else?


    No.


    Time to go.


    *****


    James


    It’s not easy leading a normal life. A cloud hangs over us all, and Mitch’s palpable unhappiness doesn’t


    help.


    And I feel terrible.


    At least Georgie seems to be getting a grip on reality.


    I’ve taken to alternating between breakfast in the house, with Michael, Charlotte and Mitch, and


    breakfast in the hotel dining room, with Georgie.


    She’s subdued. “I’m sorry I made trouble for you, Dad. I’ll do my best to make friends with everyone.”


    “Thank you, Georgie. That would be an enormous help.”


    “I know you asked me to stay in the hotel, but perhaps I could join you for lunch? If Charlotte and I


    could get to know each other properly, maybe we’d get along better.”


    I reach over the table, pat her hand. “A very good idea. Why don’t you join us in the house,ter today.


    Say, about one?”


    “I’ll be there.”


    *****