“Could be worse, could be raining,” said Craig, pretty much as soon as it started pissing down.
A big grin crawled across his flushed face like a caterpillar. He was sniffling away and wiping his runny nose with the sleeve of his leather jacket. Craig had just snorted a sugar bowl full of Colombian marching powder and popped a veritable cornucopia of multi-coloured pills. He was talking ten to the dozen and doing my napper in no end.
I forced a smile, though I was none too pleased. I was getting soaked to the skin in a vandalised cemetery, after spending the last half hour digging a grave while Craig turned himself into a walking pharmaceutical experiment.
“Let’s get on with this,” I said, grabbing the dead kangaroo by its legs. But Craig was away with the fairies again, watching a floc
