Dead Romantic Read Online Free

check it twice before pocketing the key, then slip into the Ancient World Gallery to make a handy shortcut to the stairs. The mummies slumber behind the polished glass and as I pass by I mentally tick each one off until I’m happy that they’re all present and correct in their carefully controlled environment. The stillness in the vaulted rooms and the dust falling silently through the air always soothes me after a busy day: the ancient peace is like a balm to my busy scuttling mind.
    Creepy and crawling with ghosts? Hardly.
    It’s my favourite place in the world.
    Calling goodnight to the security guard, who secures the heavy door behind me, I step into the drizzly darkness and switch on my mobile. Seconds later text alerts are buzzing like wasps and I scroll through everything, unsurprised to see three texts from Susie and several answerphone messages. Crossing the road, my head bowed against the rain and with my hood pulled up, I listen to the messages and my heart plops into my loafers when Susie’s cheerful voice is followed by my dad’s quieter tones.
    “Hello, darling, just wondering if you wanted to pop over for Sunday lunch? I thought I’d do a chicken and all the trimmings. I expect you’re very busy but I’d love to see you.” This is followed by a long pause and I imagine my father tugging his beard as he wonders what to say next. Then there’s a sigh before he continues, “I know this time of year is hard but, well… I just thought it might be nice. Take care, Cleo Rose.”
    Oh Lord. How bad do I feel now? It’s not as though I’m avoiding him; I’ve just got so much on at the moment. There’s the job application to think about and an exhibition to start arranging, not to mention all the research on Aamon, which is starting to fall behind schedule. I really don’t have time to trek all the way to Buckinghamshire just for a roast chicken.
    Battling guilt, and losing as usual, I arrive at Museum underground station and make my way down to the Piccadilly Line. It’s eerily quiet on the platform today. It’s that odd time of the evening when everyone’s either at home or busy out and about. They’re certainly not down here on the westbound platform, anyway. There’s a rumble of a distant Tube train, but apart from that it’s silent and the blind eye of the tunnel gapes into nothingness. I peer up at the neon announcements board and then return to my reading – but my mind keeps slipping away from the words. I know it’s silly but I feel on edge being alone down here now, rather than it being me and hundreds of other people. If I were Susie I’d think it was a spooky place, which of course would be absurd. It’s only a Tube station, even if it is all deserted and echoey.
    Fascinating as my reading is, I can’t help glancing up when I hear footsteps approaching. There’s a second passenger now: a man in a black coat who’s walking towards me from the far end of the platform, his scuffed Doc Martens boots crunching through the litter as he mutters to himself. A weirdo. Just my luck. Surely he isn’t going to sit on my bench when there are three others to choose from?
    I’m not going to make eye contact (I’m a Londoner using the Underground system and we don’t communicate with one another here), but I can’t help noticing a livid scar on his left cheek. He’s younger than I first thought too, and even though he’s balding his hands are matted with black hair. Hairy hands. Eugh.
    I look away hastily and bury my nose back in my book, but it’s too late. He’s caught me staring.
    “Are you looking at me?” he demands. His voice is harsh and as cracked as ancient papyri.
    I swallow nervously and pretend not to hear.
    “I said are you looking at me ?” Heavy footfalls move nearer. Unease crawls over my skin.
    Come on train. Hurry up. I don’t want to be left here with a weirdo. You hear all sorts of stories about flashers and stuff on the Tube.
    The man draws alongside my bench