Will Stop At Nothing

Will Stop At Nothing Linda Coles Blue Banana All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Copyright © 2023 Blue Banana One The allotments were a place where things were meant to grow, not die. Being right next door to the cemetery, though, was in keeping with events to come. Kind of handy, in fact, if his body were to go straight into the ground. But his journey was not to be that quick, not for his physical being anyway. Perhaps for his soul it would be different: instantaneous, simple. He’d scraped by, living on the edges of what society would call a normal life, barely existing on the streets he’d begun to call home. He’d seen for himself what being conventional could get you and had retreated back into the relative safety of his own world, far away from the harm he’d witnessed, the disgust he’d felt. Sometimes, though, fate had intervened and firm choices found themselves fighting an attack of unplanned interference, which persisted like wasps circling their disturbed nest. He sat down to contemplate his next move, exhausted. Cold seeped into his bones through a jacket more suitable for a summer’s evening than a freezing December one. Soaked feet in pre-loved trainers would normally disappoint him, yet today he hardly noticed the discomfort in his icy toes. He had other things on his mind. With fumbling fingers, he chose refuge in a chemical blur, somewhere another world away, and infinitely more pleasant than the one he existed in right now. As haze filled his head and lungs Two It was a ritual some might say, picking wildflowers and foliage to line the bottom of a freshly dug grave. Even pretty weeds were infinitely better than the sight of sticky, treacle-brown earth in a hole prepared, even expertly so, to receive someone’s loved one. In a perfect world Will Peters would rather a piece of soft carpet, cut to fit the base exactly, but who would pay? It was universally accepted that the casket was laid on soil, and he couldn’t imagine any undertaker firm suggesting made-to-measure floor covering to the family of the deceased as an option. It might raise a smile, though. Still, he could do his own bit, and that was just what he intended to do as he entered the bushes in search of fresh leaves. With the allotments just over the way, there were often interesting plants tossed over, vegetables that had perhaps gone to seed and flowered. He’d once seen a broccoli that had grown almost to the size and shape of a small bouquet as it had spread beyond what shoppers purchased for dinner, its delicate yellow flowers a pleasure to discover. It was fascinating what mother nature could do, if man left her alone to do her thing uninterrupted. People disliked weeds in general, yet a weed was simply a plant in the wrong place. Often, he’d pick flowers and the like with his young daughter, Poppy, but in