Read Online Death of a Murderer by Rupert Thomson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Rupert Thomson
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to the back garden. No sooner had Raymond entered the room than he was lifting a silver tankard off the bookshelf and forcing it into his trouser pocket. Billy wandered over to the window. Lying on the table was a black-leather handbag, half-open, with two five-pound notes visible inside. There was some loose change too. Billy held the handbag out to Raymond, showing him the contents, but Raymond was busy peeling a banana. As Raymond came and took the bag, the door behind him swung outwards and an old man shuffled into view. Though it was hard to believe, the old man didn’t seem to realise anyone was there. Seen sideways-on, the top half of his back was curved, like the shell on a tortoise; were he to walk up to a wall, his forehead would reach it first. Billy and Raymond kept perfectly still. If they didn’t move, perhaps the old man wouldn’t notice them at all. In any case, it was too late to hide.
Arms dangling, the man hung in front of a sideboard. His head wobbled slightly, as though mounted on a spring, and he was mumbling to himself. Billy couldn’t make out any of the words. Then, after what felt like an age, the man turned and saw them. His eyes widened behind his spectacles; his mouth fell open.
“Time to leave,” Raymond said.
But somehow they couldn’t even take a step. It was as if they were being told a story, and they wanted to hear more.
The old man staggered towards them. He was shouting, but all the sounds that came out of him were slurred and nasal, and both his ears were full of hair. It was horrible. Just then, a wailing started up, very loud yet strangely forlorn, and it took Billy a moment to realise that it was a siren at one of the chemical plants. They would go off as part of a practice drill, or when a shift ended, but sometimes it meant that an accident had happened. If there was a leak, you had to run as fast as you could into the wind. Raymond had told him that, and he’d got it from his father. Billy wondered which way you were supposed to run if there wasn’t any wind.
The noise seemed to trigger something in the old man. He grabbed a walking stick from the back of a chair and began to lash out in all directions.
Swish—swish—swish.
He didn’t appear to be attacking anything in particular, unless it was the air itself—or perhaps he was signalling his outrage at the presence of intruders. In any case, he was destroying the room. First a chintzy table-lamp went flying, then a shelf of bric-àbrac. The head snapped off a prancing china horse. A shell-shaped ashtray shattered. Billy watched, half-enthralled, as the stick’s black rubber tip arced through the centre light. The shade exploded, and bits of cloudy glass bounced like hail on the carpet.
By now, Raymond had slipped out of the room. Eluding the stick’s wild orbits, Billy followed. Through a half-open door he saw an old woman with thick glasses and very little hair. She was watching
Wacky Races.
When she spotted Billy in the doorway, she waved, not with her whole hand, just with her fingers.
Raymond and Billy cycled back over the level crossing and up the hill, not stopping at all until they reached the park. One foot on the ground and the other on a pedal, Billy could taste blood in his mouth, and his right side ached, but it felt good to be outside again. There had been almost no air in the house, and what there was had smelt unpleasantly sweet, like stale cake.
When they had got their breath back, Raymond offered Billy one of the fivers.
Billy shook his head. “You’re all right.”
“Sure?” Raymond said.
Billy was looking back over his shoulder. “They were mad.”
“They were just old,” Raymond said.
That night, when Billy was cleaning his teeth, a tiny triangle of misty glass fell out of his hair and landed in the sink. He kept it in a matchbox for a while, not because it was precious, but as a reminder of something. He couldn’t have said what exactly.
He didn’t see Raymond after that,
Arms dangling, the man hung in front of a sideboard. His head wobbled slightly, as though mounted on a spring, and he was mumbling to himself. Billy couldn’t make out any of the words. Then, after what felt like an age, the man turned and saw them. His eyes widened behind his spectacles; his mouth fell open.
“Time to leave,” Raymond said.
But somehow they couldn’t even take a step. It was as if they were being told a story, and they wanted to hear more.
The old man staggered towards them. He was shouting, but all the sounds that came out of him were slurred and nasal, and both his ears were full of hair. It was horrible. Just then, a wailing started up, very loud yet strangely forlorn, and it took Billy a moment to realise that it was a siren at one of the chemical plants. They would go off as part of a practice drill, or when a shift ended, but sometimes it meant that an accident had happened. If there was a leak, you had to run as fast as you could into the wind. Raymond had told him that, and he’d got it from his father. Billy wondered which way you were supposed to run if there wasn’t any wind.
The noise seemed to trigger something in the old man. He grabbed a walking stick from the back of a chair and began to lash out in all directions.
Swish—swish—swish.
He didn’t appear to be attacking anything in particular, unless it was the air itself—or perhaps he was signalling his outrage at the presence of intruders. In any case, he was destroying the room. First a chintzy table-lamp went flying, then a shelf of bric-àbrac. The head snapped off a prancing china horse. A shell-shaped ashtray shattered. Billy watched, half-enthralled, as the stick’s black rubber tip arced through the centre light. The shade exploded, and bits of cloudy glass bounced like hail on the carpet.
By now, Raymond had slipped out of the room. Eluding the stick’s wild orbits, Billy followed. Through a half-open door he saw an old woman with thick glasses and very little hair. She was watching
Wacky Races.
When she spotted Billy in the doorway, she waved, not with her whole hand, just with her fingers.
Raymond and Billy cycled back over the level crossing and up the hill, not stopping at all until they reached the park. One foot on the ground and the other on a pedal, Billy could taste blood in his mouth, and his right side ached, but it felt good to be outside again. There had been almost no air in the house, and what there was had smelt unpleasantly sweet, like stale cake.
When they had got their breath back, Raymond offered Billy one of the fivers.
Billy shook his head. “You’re all right.”
“Sure?” Raymond said.
Billy was looking back over his shoulder. “They were mad.”
“They were just old,” Raymond said.
That night, when Billy was cleaning his teeth, a tiny triangle of misty glass fell out of his hair and landed in the sink. He kept it in a matchbox for a while, not because it was precious, but as a reminder of something. He couldn’t have said what exactly.
He didn’t see Raymond after that,
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