Justice for the Damned by Ben Cheetham Page B

considering that he seemingly couldn’t stand the sight of her when she was alive.
    Pale sunlight slanted through half-drawn curtains onto a figure slumped in an armchair near the window. Frank Geary’s chin rested against his chest. A string of saliva stretched from his lips to the slight bulge of his belly. His nostrils trembled as he snored. The low morning sun picked out every wrinkle, crease and broken vein in his unshaven face, making him look even older than usual. His pyjamas hung loosely on his frame, which although still big, was rapidly being consumed by the malignant tumours in his lungs. A mug rested in his lap, tilted halfway over so that some of its contents had spilled out.
    Reece picked up the mug and sniffed the dregs of milky tea. They gave off a strong tang of whisky. ‘For Christ’s sake, Dad.’
    Frank stirred, opening one bloodshot eye. ‘What are you doing here?’ he growled in a voice sanded down by a lifetime of heavy smoking.
    ‘Have you forgotten you’re going for chemo today?’
    ‘Course I haven’t bloody forgotten. I wish I could forget it.’
    ‘Then why aren’t you dressed?’ Reece tapped his watch. ‘We’re supposed to be at the hospital by ten.’
    ‘What are you talking about? My chemo doesn’t start until one.’
    ‘Yes, but remember Doctor Meadows wants to run some tests beforehand.’
    ‘Tests,’ Frank snorted. ‘I’m sick of tests. What’s the point of them?’
    ‘Doctor Meadows wants to find out how you’re—’
    ‘I know what the bastard wants to find out,’ Frank interrupted, his voice rising. ‘I just don’t see why he needs to do more tests to tell him what’s bleeding obvious. I mean, look at me. Just about the only thing I’m not losing is my hair.’
    ‘Come on, Dad. You’ve just got time for a quick shower and shave.’
    Reece stooped to help his dad to his feet. Frank slapped his hand away. ‘I don’t need your help. Not yet.’ Arms trembling, he pushed himself upright.
    ‘I’ll make you some breakfast,’ said Reece.
    ‘Don’t bother. You know I can’t keep anything down after chemo.’
    ‘Even so, you should eat something.’
    While his dad was showering, Reece made tea and toast and took it up to him. Frank emerged from the bathroom, shaved and smelling of the same strong aftershave he’d been using for as long as Reece could remember. Hot water and razor burn had brought some colour into his face. Scowling, he lashed out, knocking the plate from his son’s hand. ‘I told you I don’t want any fucking breakfast! Christ, you’re just like your mother. You never bloody listen.’ He pushed past Reece into a bedroom, slamming the door behind himself.
    Sighing, Reece retrieved the plate and returned to the kitchen. The sound of coughing came from upstairs. It continued for a minute or two, rising to a hacking, choking pitch, then subsided. A moment later, Frank slowly descended the stairs. He waited by the front door, breath grating in his throat, lips compressed into a pained line. Knowing that any show of concern would only draw more of his dad’s anger, Reece headed outside to the car.
    Neither man spoke as they threaded their way through the dregs of rush-hour traffic. Oppressed by the silence, Reece turned on the radio. The news was on, and as always over the past few days, the newsreader was talking about the spate of murders that had rocked the city. ‘Police are still searching for the man who shot and killed Detective Inspector Amy Sheridan,’ the newsreader announced. ‘He’s described as thirty to forty years old, five feet eleven to six feet two, well-built, with dark brown eyes and hair. He was last seen wearing a black bomber jacket, and is thought to be driving a black Range Rover. He’s also known to have suffered a serious injury to his left eye. He’s armed and extremely dangerous. If you see the suspect, under no circumstances approach him. Call the police on the number provided at the end of this piece.