Blood at the Bookies

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“Come on, everyone likes a bet,” said Jude.

“Well, I don’t,” sniffed Carole.

The response was so characteristic and instinctive that her friend couldn’t help smiling. In a world where everyone was encouraged to be ‘hands-on’ and ‘touchy-feely’, Carole Seddon’s approach to life was always going to be ‘hands-off’ and ‘keep-your-distance’. But those idiosyncrasies didn’t diminish Jude’s affection for her. And that February morning the affection was increased by the diminished state her neighbour was in. The response to the idea of betting would always have been sniffy, but on this occasion it had been accompanied by a genuine sniff. Carole was drowned by a virulent winter flu bug, and Jude felt the last emotion her neighbour would ever wish to inspire in anyone – pity.

“Anyway, I’ve promised Harold I’ll go to the betting shop and put his bets on, so I can’t not do it.”

“Huh,” was Carole’s predictable response. Her pinched face looked even thinner behind her rimless glasses. The pale blue eyes were bleary and the short grey hair hung lank.

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