Irrational.She sucked on a bottle of gin they’d found in the back of a cupboard. Winced. Made a face. Who the hell still drank gin in this day and age? It deserved to die in the twentieth century, along with all this other old crap.What struck her now about Ian’s stuff was how dated it all was. That he was set in his ways might’ve been expected, but a Walkman still being used in 2014? Really? She’d seen a cassette player like his, a yellow version instead of red, on a school trip to the Museum of Scotland round the corner. A fucking museum. That’s where Ian and his mysterious brother belonged, dead and stuffed, on display in some dusty glass case down the end of a disused corridor in a museum no fucker ever visited any more.But that wasn’t true either.Because Johnny was still alive. Still in the land of the living, very much still with us.At least she thought he was.It had been too late to make enquiries at the Royal after the whole business with the house. She’d phoned and tried to use her insider knowledge as an outpatient, but she got nowhere with the night-shift nurse, and was told to call back in the morning when someone would be able to help.Elaine had gone to a neighbour’s house, Barbara at number 11.
