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   Chapter 33 No.33

Sheryl's Last Stand By Kerrie Noor Characters: 5400

Updated: 2018-02-07 12:01

Rona looked at Sheryl's pasty face, and knew an earnest soul when she saw one, 'Would you like a cuppa and I'll show you the problem, ' she said.


Sheryl downed her third cup of tea and looked at Steven, who was grimly staring ahead.

'You want another?'


'You gonna help me?'

Steven shrugged his shoulder and said nothing.

He was tired and his insides were giving him hell, his mood had not really improved even with the ride in the limo. He thought about the next few hours. Whichever way you looked at it, it was not going to be fun. He looked outside the window and wondered how the cyclist was.

Sheryl crouched by the toilet, it was an old toilet similar to the one at the bottom of the stairs in Beatrice's house, and just like Beatrice's, it was surrounded by white tiles stained with age. Sheryl pulled a wrench from her tool bag and felt a little more in control. Rona stood by, watching as Steven silently handed Sheryl some sort of connection. Rona tried to fill the silence with talk, most of it about Harry and his balls-up.

'Oh well, our car blew up, how much more of a balls-up can you get than that?' said Steven.

Sheryl muttered something about her mother's driving and stuck her hand into the cistern.

Steven snapped. 'If you could just contain yourself to one bottle of wine instead of a crate, your mother wouldn't have had to drive, or me for that matter.'


'Most people see a pre-dinner drink as a glass or two, not a bottle or more.'

'I knew an alcoholic once, ' interrupted Rona, 'he was good at plumbing too'.

'Why do you need to get s

of the night bundled up in his bed hugging a bucket, while struggling to keep his eyes opened so as to avoid his head spinning.

Yes, he had been there, and once was enough. The painful months that followed with the nod and winks from his sisters, the jokes from his father, and the embarrassing blushes every time he met his mother's friend were just too much.

It took him three months to walk into the newsagents again.

Steven watched Sheryl's red hair fall about her shoulders as she crouched by the bottom of the toilet, with all the ease of a Middle Eastern peasant.

Steven sighed as familiar feelings of passion stirred in his loins. How he loved to watch her work, and act rough with a joint or two. How he loved to watch her strong arms work miracles with tools and grease. A lady plumber who solved murders, he thought, that'd be a good next book. She could come across dead bodies and clues while attending to someone's boiler. He smiled, he felt a bit better, he could just see his character; a wise-cracking tough red-head. He pulled out his note book.

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