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Authors: Andrew Taylor
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retelling. The woman was a barefaced liar. She needed locking up.
âThe bitch,â his mother had murmured between coughs and genteel sips, and for once she didnât mean Ma Halleran. âThe bitch. All the years I worked there, and she didnât even give me the chance to explain.â
Charlie had been tempted to point out that even if the bitch in question had given his mother the chance to explain, there was nothing she could have usefully produced in her defence. She had been trying to steal that silver box, that was all there was to be said about it. His mother was lucky that Mrs Wemyss-Bitch hadnât gone to the police. He just hoped that the old battle-axe wouldnât tell the other people his mother worked for.
In any case, it had been such a stupid thing to do. As so often when he thought about his mother, Charlie Meague was torn between exasperation and affection. At the age of six, he had realised that he was cleverer than her. He had never seen any reason to revise this conclusion. If the silly cow had thought about it, she would have known that sooner or later the theft would have been discovered. And of course they would suspect her of having done it. It was always easier to suspect the cleaning woman than a friend. Besides, in this case, Mrs Wemyss-Brown would have told herself that the crooked streak obviously ran in the family. In Lydmouth, people had long memories. Like son, like mother, theyâd say to themselves: bad blood will out. What irritated Charlie most of all was the reason why his mother had done it. Though he had said nothing to her, she knew that he needed money: she had stolen the box for him.
The house cooled around him. At least it was no longer raining. He had left the curtains undrawn and through the window there were stars. There might even be a frost tonight.
If his mother had been capable of putting two and two together, she would have guessed what he planned to do by the questions he had asked her. Perhaps she had guessed, but preferred not to admit it even to herself. It was better that she shouldnât know.
The church clock struck the three-quarters. He was tempted not to wait any longer. But he had decided to go at midnight, so midnight was the time he would go. Carn had taught him the value of planning, if nothing else. If you made a plan you followed it through. You didnât improvise unless you had to, because thatâs when things tended to go wrong. By midnight, most people would be likely to be asleep.
Charlie reached out a hand for the tobacco tin beside the bed. He rolled himself a cigarette in the dark. A moment later, he struck a match. The tiny bedroom briefly filled with light. He lit the cigarette and leant on one elbow to smoke it.
On the other side of the partition wall, his mother coughed; her bed creaked and the phlegm bubbled in her throat.
It was only a matter of time before Carn traced him to Lydmouth. Charlie didnât want to think about that. Instead, he thought of that bastard Evans and how he had acted over the box and its contents. Look at the way heâd been when they found that brooch. Charlie sucked furiously. He would have to be careful with Evans. He needed the job. After all, it gave him a reason to be in Lydmouth, and it gave him some money too.
Charlie shut his eyes and remembered how Evans had flattened the rat with the back of his shovel. There had been a surprising amount of blood. It had made the flagstones greasy, but the evening rain might have washed it away.
The cigarette burned lower. Charlie tried to empty his mind of everything. In the past, he had found that this was the best way: to give himself a little peace before he went into action. But the memory of the wooden box forced its way back into the emptiness. In the end it was easier to let it stay. He had seen that box somewhere else. Or one very like it.
The clock on St Johnâs tower began to strike midnight.
Part
âThe bitch,â his mother had murmured between coughs and genteel sips, and for once she didnât mean Ma Halleran. âThe bitch. All the years I worked there, and she didnât even give me the chance to explain.â
Charlie had been tempted to point out that even if the bitch in question had given his mother the chance to explain, there was nothing she could have usefully produced in her defence. She had been trying to steal that silver box, that was all there was to be said about it. His mother was lucky that Mrs Wemyss-Bitch hadnât gone to the police. He just hoped that the old battle-axe wouldnât tell the other people his mother worked for.
In any case, it had been such a stupid thing to do. As so often when he thought about his mother, Charlie Meague was torn between exasperation and affection. At the age of six, he had realised that he was cleverer than her. He had never seen any reason to revise this conclusion. If the silly cow had thought about it, she would have known that sooner or later the theft would have been discovered. And of course they would suspect her of having done it. It was always easier to suspect the cleaning woman than a friend. Besides, in this case, Mrs Wemyss-Brown would have told herself that the crooked streak obviously ran in the family. In Lydmouth, people had long memories. Like son, like mother, theyâd say to themselves: bad blood will out. What irritated Charlie most of all was the reason why his mother had done it. Though he had said nothing to her, she knew that he needed money: she had stolen the box for him.
The house cooled around him. At least it was no longer raining. He had left the curtains undrawn and through the window there were stars. There might even be a frost tonight.
If his mother had been capable of putting two and two together, she would have guessed what he planned to do by the questions he had asked her. Perhaps she had guessed, but preferred not to admit it even to herself. It was better that she shouldnât know.
The church clock struck the three-quarters. He was tempted not to wait any longer. But he had decided to go at midnight, so midnight was the time he would go. Carn had taught him the value of planning, if nothing else. If you made a plan you followed it through. You didnât improvise unless you had to, because thatâs when things tended to go wrong. By midnight, most people would be likely to be asleep.
Charlie reached out a hand for the tobacco tin beside the bed. He rolled himself a cigarette in the dark. A moment later, he struck a match. The tiny bedroom briefly filled with light. He lit the cigarette and leant on one elbow to smoke it.
On the other side of the partition wall, his mother coughed; her bed creaked and the phlegm bubbled in her throat.
It was only a matter of time before Carn traced him to Lydmouth. Charlie didnât want to think about that. Instead, he thought of that bastard Evans and how he had acted over the box and its contents. Look at the way heâd been when they found that brooch. Charlie sucked furiously. He would have to be careful with Evans. He needed the job. After all, it gave him a reason to be in Lydmouth, and it gave him some money too.
Charlie shut his eyes and remembered how Evans had flattened the rat with the back of his shovel. There had been a surprising amount of blood. It had made the flagstones greasy, but the evening rain might have washed it away.
The cigarette burned lower. Charlie tried to empty his mind of everything. In the past, he had found that this was the best way: to give himself a little peace before he went into action. But the memory of the wooden box forced its way back into the emptiness. In the end it was easier to let it stay. He had seen that box somewhere else. Or one very like it.
The clock on St Johnâs tower began to strike midnight.
Part
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