Dire Straits Read Online Free

work every day.’
    ‘When I don’t work, I sleep.’ He has a knack for making me feel both guilty and annoyed at exactly the same time.
    ‘I can still put in a word with Thompson and Grant, you know.’
    ‘So I can spend my days investigating insurance fraud? No thank you.’
    There’s a moment of silence. When I finally look up and meet his eyes, his hands are on his hips. He appears genuinely perplexed. ‘You’d rather be saving daemons?’
    I sigh. It would take more than the passing of a few laws to take away the old-school racism bred into my grandfather’s psyche. ‘He’s Agathos,’ I repeat, pointlessly. ‘And only a quarter at that.’
    ‘So you’ve said.’ Something flashes in his eyes and I realise I’m about to get sucker-punched. ‘You don’t normally do this though, Bo. Save daemons, I mean. You normally hang around taking sleazy pictures of affairs or handing out summons. Does that make you feel fulfilled?’
    ‘You’ve been keeping tabs on me.’ I keep my voice flat. It’s not a question.
    ‘You’re my only grandchild. Of course I’m keeping tabs on you! I’m concerned about the life you’ve chosen. You can do better than that seedy firm.’
    ‘It’s not seedy.’ I’m lying. It’s seedier than a prostitute’s unwashed bed linen. I continue, ‘And it’s a meritorious corporate ladder. You start at the bottom and work your way up. I’m working my way up.’ I finish my last stitch and tie the catgut into a granny knot. I stand up, drawing my shoulders back and looking my grandfather in the eye. ‘This is what I want to do.’
    He doesn’t give way. He just remains where he is, staring back at me with a challenging look. Long seconds stretch out. Then O’Shea breaks the tension by moaning and coughing. He mutters something and twists on the table in a spasm of pain.
    I bend down. ‘What is it?’
    He coughs again. I place my ear closer to his mouth, ignoring the distaste that crosses my grandfather’s features.
    ‘Thank.’ There’s a drawn-out pause as he sucks in air. ‘You.’ His pupils roll into his head and he lapses back into unconsciousness.
    I straighten up and give my grandfather a triumphant look. He raises his eyebrows. ‘So he’s got manners. So what?’
    I give up. I’m covered in blood, in dire need of a shower, and I have many, many questions which need answers. Dealing with my grandfather is not a priority. My bladder, however, still is.
    ‘May I use your bathroom?’ I ask primly.
    He nods and gestures upwards. I walk out, taking care not to brush against anything and leave a bloodstained advertisement of my presence in my grandfather’s immaculately kept house. I’d never hear the end of it if he came across a smudge of daemon blood on his flocked wallpaper.
    In the bathroom, I finally relieve myself then lean over the small sink and wash off as much of the blood as I can. I’m not hugely successful; all I manage to do is smear it over my skin. I’m particularly pissed off that my jacket is covered in it. When I decide I can do no more until I get home and strip off, I rock back on my heels and stare at my reflection in the mirror. My skin is even paler than normal, and my hair is matted and untidy. I smooth it down but it appears that daemon blood is no better at keeping my unruly curls in place than expensive hair products, so I give up and head back to the kitchen. My grandfather is washing up at the sink. He turns round as I approach, no doubt assessing my remarkably unimproved appearance.
    ‘Can I leave him here until nightfall?’
    I’d rather not, but O’Shea needs to rest and I need to find out exactly what is going on. My grandfather may not appreciate his presence, but right now his unconscious body would be too much of an encumbrance, especially with the sodding police apparently after him.
    His gaze remains on me. ‘Is he dangerous?’
    I look at O’Shea stretched out on the table, soaked in blood and in a semi-coma. Then I