LITMIR.BIZ

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and seen him straddling her latest man and gone mental. She’d rung the police who had rung an ambulance. Wally had ended up being dragged out of his house screaming that the clown on the front of the Poltergeist DVD had told him to do it.

      He glanced at the clown suit that was hanging from his picture rail. When he’d found it in the trunk in the attic at the last house they’d cleared out he’d stashed it down his jumper. He knew that he should have left it where it was and boxed it up with the rest of the stuff, but he hadn’t. The voice he hadn’t heard for a long time had told him to take it, so he had, and now look what had happened.

      Walter looked away from it. He found it fascinating yet terrifying. It was telling him what he needed to do; only today he didn’t have time. He had to be normal; well, as normal as he could be. He stood up and went to the tiny kitchen to get a glass of water to swallow his pills with. He’d been on Largactil since he’d been in hospital, not that it was helping. He wondered if he’d become immune to it because he’d been taking it for so long.

      After he swallowed the orange tablet he took the sun lotion off the windowsill and rubbed it on his face and arms. He was fair-skinned anyway, but the medication made him burn even quicker if he left the house without it.

      A loud hammering on his front door made him jump, his heart pounding. The palms of his hands felt slick with sweat. Surely not; they couldn’t have found him so soon, could they? He crept to have a look through the spyhole, hoping to God it wasn’t a bunch of huge, hairy coppers on the other side.

      As he bent his head forward to peer through the small, glass hole he heard a voice bellow, ‘What the fuck you playing at? I’ve been waiting five minutes for you. Get your arse out here now. Jacko said if we didn’t get that house cleared by dinner time neither of us is getting paid.’

      He stepped back, releasing the breath he’d been holding and hoping his trembling knees would hold his body weight.

      ‘I’m coming now; sorry, I never heard you.’

      He didn’t particularly like Jacko, his boss, or Stevie who was waiting impatiently outside for him, but the job paid him cash in hand so putting up with the pair of them was a small price to pay. He opened the door and waited for some arsy comment about what a state he was in from Stevie; instead he shook his head at him.

      ‘You know, if you opened your curtains and windows to let some fresh air into that shithole of a flat you might see what life was like on the other side once in a while. Not to mention hear me when I beep the fucking horn.’

      ‘Sorry, slept in. I was dead to the world.’

      ‘Well, you can go brush your teeth. I’m not sitting in the front of that van with you breathing all over me if you’ve got bad breath.’

      ‘Don’t be stupid. I’ve cleaned my teeth and had a shower.’

      Stevie peered at him with one eye then turned and walked off. Walter grabbed his door key then shut his door, locking it behind him. The house had been a fancy Georgian townhouse once upon a time until whoever owned it had died. The current owners didn’t give a shit about the state of it and had turned it into far too many flats, letting it go to rack and ruin.

      The smell of an assortment of herbs and spices filled his nostrils as he stepped into the communal hallway, making his stomach rumble even though it was only eight-thirty. Mrs Batta was always cooking no matter what time of day or night it was. He tried to think when the last time he’d eaten was and couldn’t remember. It might have been last night, but he wasn’t sure because he’d felt so sick before he’d gone out to that house that it was all a bit of a blur.

      As he went out into the bright sunlight he squinted. His face was too white. He looked like a ghost at the best of times. He couldn’t afford to get sunburnt, though. Dean was already back in the van with the engine running. He was the complete opposite of Walter. Stevie was so tanned he looked like he’d just come back from three weeks in Tenerife.

      Walter hadn’t any inclination to do what Stevie did and pose in the gym every day after work and then go lie on the sunbeds. Each to their own, he supposed. If he did that he’d be burnt to a crisp in no time. He climbed into the van, which smelt of greasy McDonald’s, and his stomach groaned loudly. Why was there food everywhere?

      ‘Bloody hell, Wally, have you eaten lately? You look like a walking ginger skeleton!’

      He shook his head, no point in lying.

      ‘How are you going to do a day’s work shifting boxes and furniture without anything in your belly, lad? You’ll be no good to me if you pass out. Come on, I’ll go back to the drive-through and you can get something.’

      ‘Thanks, if that’s all right.’ He began to scrabble in his pockets to see what change he had and if he had enough to pay for a sausage and egg McMuffin. He pulled out his last crumpled five-pound note and hoped that after today’s job Jacko would pay him what he owed him for the last two weeks. Stevie drove back round the drive-through, ordering the full works including two lattes. Walter felt sick. He didn’t have enough to pay.

      ‘I’ve only got a fiver, mate.’

      Stevie waved his hand away.

      ‘Someone’s got to look after your sorry arse. You either need to find a woman or a man – whatever floats your boat – to sort you out, mate. You can’t carry on like this. You look like some waif. This one is on me.’

      He had to turn away for fear of Dean seeing the gratitude on his face and the tears in his eyes; no one ever did anything nice for him. He couldn’t remember the last time they had – definitely not since his gran had died two years ago anyway. He thought about the suffering she’d been through and then he thought about the woman he’d killed last night. He’d seen her coming out of the newsagent’s and recognised her. She went to the same hospice that his gran had. He didn’t know why he’d followed her home the night before; he just had.

      That wasn’t strictly true, though, was it, Wally? The voice that belonged to the suit told you to. You stabbed her like she was nothing last night. How many times did you need to stick that knife into her? He shrugged his shoulders; he’d had to make sure she was dead, hadn’t he? He told the voice inside his head to shut up and took the bag of greasy food and the cardboard drinks carrier off Stevie.

      As he bit into the hot, juicy muffin his stomach groaned in appreciation. He couldn’t help but wonder who the clown stuff in the box he’d found at the last house had actually belonged to. He didn’t have any internet or a decent mobile phone to try and search for some information. What he could do was go to the library at the weekend and do some digging there, maybe ask at the records office or use a computer there if he had a spare couple of quid to pay for it. It would be interesting to know more about the person it had belonged to. There was something so mesmerising about it.

      When he’d pulled the costume out of the trunk there had been a wig and a big, black thing that went around your neck. He’d found a couple of black and white photographs in the bottom of the trunk, tucked into a faded yellow envelope. One was of a man sitting in a cage with three huge lions on his own; the other had been a small picture of three clowns – all different shapes and sizes.

      He’d recognised the suit that he’d pulled out of the box. The clown wearing it had the strangest hair – just three tufts – and a huge red mouth. It was the kind of clown that would give anyone a phobia of clowns, not to mention nightmares. He didn’t imagine the kids who visited the circus would want much to do with him unless he was really funny and kind. Then again, if he’d been kind, why had he felt such overwhelming feelings when he’d tried the costume on? And then that rage towards the woman had been nothing like he’d ever known. It wasn’t as if he knew her and she’d upset him. It was as if someone else had taken over his body. Was that possible? He wondered if the clown suit was haunted. It might even be possessed.

      Then he shook his head. He knew that the suit probably had nothing to do with it. The problem was him; it always had been. Dean started the engine, waking him from his daydream.

      ‘Right,

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