Her body was found a couple of hours ago.”“That’s not possible! She went to Girl’s Night Out with Jude and the girls from yoga.” He jumped up and grabbed his cellphone. “I’ll call her. You’ll see. She’s fine.”“Dave, she was positively ID’d. She had her bag with her, her driver’s license, plus,” I hesitated to tell him, but I pushed forward, “I saw her. It was Melissa.”“There must be a mistake,” he said, dropping back into the chair. I got up and poured him a glass of bourbon. He took it with trembling hands, stared at it, then downed it in one gulp.“You’re sure it was her?” he asked as I refilled his glass.“Yes.”“I can’t believe it. How?” Dave asked, “How did it happen? Was it an accident? Had she been drinking?”I poured myself a glass and swallowed it, feeling the warmth of its familiar burn. “No,” I said, “We believe she was murdered.”“Murdered? What the fuck are you talking about? Why? Who would have done that?” He stood again. I could tell he was about to snap. I put a hand on. Not a boy boy, but a teen-man boy complete with bum fluff attached to his top lip and straggly hairies of post-pubescentdom decorating his chin, all dressed up in the grungiest, scuzziest, ripiest jeans and t-shirt and topped with a battered leather jacket covered in badges and patches and Tippex scrawl. No sooner had I wiggled my perky, pokie, adorability beneath the bus stop awning and quicker than you could say 'outdated, seventies, cliche of rebellion with no relevance to twenty-first-century teenagers' than he 'hey babed' me. Now I know better than to fraternise with rebels-without-a-clue but it was just him and me, so I gave him my most withering look with just a hint of come hither sexual allure, which was all the invitation he needed. He said his name was Rotten Johnny which was not to be confused with Johnny Rotten, who was apparently somebody else. Whatever!!! But rotten he definitely was. He was the rottenest, stinkiest, steamiest, steamy, steampunk in the whole history of.
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