The Devil's Trill Sonata Read Online Free Page A

one of those weird cuts that even pixies called short, so short it wasn’t even rumpled. Bony sort of a face. Kind of luminously white—even Jayden had more of a tan than she did. White T-shirt that didn’t help the skin tone, or do anything to hide those tiny boobs. Offensively pink knickers.
    Pretty, he supposed, in a very rough and sketchy way.
    “Stop leaving the landing door open when you come in,” she said. “It creates a draught!”
    Darren stared at her. “The what?”
    “The landing door!”
    “…The door at the bottom of the stairs?”
    “Yes!”
    “Um, okay.”
    She scowled harder, then folded her arms. “Okay.”
    “Uh, yes,” Darren said. “Now, do you mind? At least put some trousers on.”
    She scowled again and huffed. “Why do you think I felt the draught?”
    “Fair enough,” Darren said and sat up. “Darren Peace.”
    “Rachel Yates,” she said and shifted her knees. Darren didn’t blame her. It was chilly; he wasn’t paying for extra heating before winter hit. “You like omelettes?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Come on then,” she said imperiously and swept out. Darren eyed the door that she left open, showing the tiny landing and her own open flat door. He considered his sore heels, then figured if his neighbour had decided to show up in her knickers and offer him free food, who was he to turn it down?
    He heaved himself off the bed and followed.
    * * * *
    Rachel Yates lived in an identical box across the tiny hall of the converted top floor, and in disarray. Her kitchenette was covered in yellow sticky notes with cryptic messages like ‘unsalted butter wtf?’ and ‘JODIE’S PENCIL’ in chicken-scratch handwriting. She had more pink knickers drying on the radiator under the window, threw a cherry tomato at Darren’s head, and imperiously demanded if he knew how to make an omelette.
    “I’m crap,” she said. “You’d better know.”
    “Do I get some of it if I do make it?”
    “A quarter.”
    “A third, or you and your tomatoes can go fu…”
    “Fine, Jesus.”
    She rummaged in the fridge; Darren complimented the knicker-clad arse, and got another tomato bounced off his cheek for his efforts.
    “Perv,” she said.
    “You’re the one who invited a total stranger into your flat to make you dinner. In your knickers. What am I meant to think?”
    “I’m being nice!” Rachel defended herself.
    “You’re being a massive flirt,” Darren said.
    “Please, the landlady told me you’re gay.”
    “Bi,” Darren corrected and Rachel flushed. “Yeah. Check your research next time.”
    She snorted and dumped an eggbox in his hands. “Get on with it.”
    Rachel, it turned out, was twenty-two and a teaching assistant at the nearby primary school. She was originally from ‘Pompey’—or Portsmouth—but had moved away to get away from her childhood, just like Darren. She had a disturbing fetish for yellow sticky notes (seriously, they were everywhere; there was one on the light switch about a frog) and went running every morning, and spent the entire cooking time for the omelette trying to persuade Darren to join her tomorrow morning.
    “I’ve been here a year,” Rachel said when Darren passed her a plate, and beckoned him to curl up on her sagging sofa, covered with fluffy afghans in varying colours. He sank into the nest and found it surprisingly comfortable. “My last neighbour died.”
    “Lovely,” Darren said.
    “Yeah, he hanged himself on the landing. Lovely thing to find first thing in the morning.” She pulled a face. “He was weird, though. Literally never spoke to him.”
    “No knickers-related invasions?”
    “Nope,” she said loftily. “Weird, bald guy. I swear he shaved everywhere. He wasn’t fuzzy like you,” and she prodded Darren’s ankle where his work trousers had ridden up enough to show a slip of skin and leg hair above his sock. “You that hairy all over?”
    “Not anymore,” Darren shrugged. “The boyfriend complained.”
    “Is he