Sam had planned to stay in the garden until he’d finished the bottle of vodka, but every drink he took reminded him of the taste of it on James’s tongue. After a while Sam just chucked it in a patch of stinging nettles in disgust.
Then, of course, he wished he hadn’t. Sitting in the garden by himself getting drunk might be a bit sad, but sitting in the garden by himself not getting drunk was just pathetic. Giving up, he heaved himself to his feet. Might as well go back to the house. At least he’d see who James was with. Unless they’d left already? Sam looked at his watch. Twelve fifty-eight.
They should still be there, then. After all, the whole point of coming to this bloody house on Halloween night was to see the ghosts. Some poor bastard from ninety years ago and the jealous gay lover
