Page 28 - WaitingForMurder

breeding there. I think we’re living in a hot swamp. Sort of like the Amazon – but with no alligators.
When morning arrives it’s already hot before the church bell even bongs seven. There’s a bite on my ankle the size of a small egg and I limp downstairs to the kitchen and slap a lump of ice on it.
Mum appears a moment later. “Couldn’t sleep?” I nod.
“Me neither,” she says, flipping the switch on the
kettle. “Is your friend around today?”
“She’s off buying shoes or something,” I answer,
waiting for the bite to stop itching.
“Stuck with me then,” says Mum. “We’re just
investigating the area to the right of the grave. Anya thinks there might be another burial, but it gets horribly hot out there in the open. We may have to wait for the weather to break.”
We eat toast listening to the radio. The weather forecast is hot, with added hot. They reckon Scotland will be hotter than Ireland, and England will be hotter than both.
My feet covered in tea tree oil and all the skin
in between coated with insect repellent, we set off
up to the dam, trickles of sweat already setting
Waiting for Murder by Fleur Hitchcock Uncorrected Sample
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