Last Orders (a Gus Dury Crime Thriller) - Plot & Excerpts
Maybe that's why I couldn't bring myself to open my eyes. I was lying in bed at my Easter Road flat-cum-kip house when I heard the postie rattle the slot and drop some mail onto the mat below. I had a thought to test one eye on the clock but then routine, the old leveller, kicked in. The days of posties showing before 2 p.m. in this city were well over so the only question kicking me out of bed during daylight hours was who the fuck could be interested in writing to me? I shifted onto my side, provoked an ear-splitting cough that sent knives stabbing at my lower back. My first thought was to reach for a smoke, but I could see the soft-pack of Marlboros crumpled on the floor by the scuffed foot of the dresser. I was all out of luck again. It was cold. I felt the chill from the loose, condensation-wet windowpanes on my bare shoulders. A shiver passed through me — my mother would have said someone was walking over my grave and the way my chest felt I wouldn't have argued the toss; I could already be in it.
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