Looking Good Dead

41

Roy Grace, unsteady in his seat in the swaying taxi, stared at the display of his mobile phone. Stared at the single letter.

X

He was having serious trouble focusing and despite – or because of – his drunkenness his emotions were in turmoil. Street lights and headlights flashed past him. On the taxi’s crackly radio some caller on a late-night phone-in programme was talking furiously about Tony Blair and the National Health Service. He looked at his watch. Ten past one.

How had the evening gone?

He could still taste Cleo on his lips. Could smell her perfume in the cab, on his clothes. God, she was lovely. He still had a hard-on. He’d walked out of the bloody restaurant with a hard-on. And if she had invited him in, would he have…?

And he knew the answer.

But she had not invited him in.

He inhaled deeply, but this time all he got was the stale plastic smell of the cab’s interior.

‘Four hours bloody wait, me mum’s sick with cancer, and they made her wait four hours with her head split open before anyone saw her!’ the man on the radio said bitterly.

‘Disgusting, innit?’ the cab driver said.

‘Totally,’ Grace said absently, concentrating on the keypad of his phone.

‘Nice lady you had there. I think I recognized her. Got a feeling I’ve met her somewhere.’

‘Most people only get to meet her when they’re dead.’

‘Is that right?’ the driver said, sounding bemused. ‘An angel, is she?’

‘Exactly,’ Grace said distractedly, still concentrating on his phone. He tapped out XX. Then sent it.

When he reached home, several minutes later, he was disappointed that he’d had no response.