Read Online Dying to Write by Judith Cutler - Free Book Online Page A

about picking up a rat. How would the rat feel about being picked up by me? He was even less sure than I was, and struggled. There must be quite a lot of muscle to struggle with, and rats come equipped with needle teeth. But clearly I had to return him to the safety of his cage. I pressed him to my chest.
    He struggled more purposefully. Then he slipped clear. But instead of diving to freedom, he clawed up my shoulder and on to my neck, where he lay, heavy, warm and wet. Presumably this was what rats considered first-class travel.
    I simply walked into Kate’s room via Matt’s, which happened to be empty and unlocked. But there was no food around, apart from a sprinkling around the edge of the room, a giant parabola of brightly coloured confetti. The packet of digestive biscuits had gone from Kate’s table too. I thrust the rat with some loss of his dignity into the cage, balanced the litter tray on top, and retreated to my own room, where it would be easier to keep an eye on him. Food? A rapid raid on the kitchen produced cheese, the heel of a granary loaf, an apple. The biscuit barrel was empty.
    Sidney eyed the apple and cheese with disdain. It was a good job I’d thought of the bread. Plainly there was more to rodents than I’d realised.
    I nibbled the cheese and apple myself, and started to feel better.
    Chris had made his own plans for the evening meeting. He’d asked Shazia, Matt and me to join him in the staff flat above the rabbit-hutches, then he wanted everyone together after supper so he could make a general announcement.
    Shazia welcomed us politely and showed us into her living room. The room contained a genial mixture of Impressionist prints and Islamic art. There were a number of holy texts in Arabic lettering; Shazia followed my gaze and said quietly, ‘Yes, we made the hajj two years ago.’
    I was impressed – they were very young to have made the expensive pilgrimage.
    Chris gestured at the dining table: it might be more businesslike to sit there.
    â€˜The pathologist’s report,’ he began, in his official voice, ‘confirms that Mrs Compton –’
    â€˜Nyree?’ asked Matt.
    â€˜Mrs Nyree Compton died of a mixture of alcohol and barbiturates,’ Chris finished. ‘Specifically, as you saw, she choked on her own vomit.’
    â€˜So it’s what we thought,’ said Shazia, visibly relaxing. ‘We all warned her about her drinking.’
    Or thought about it. I’d never spoken aloud.
    â€˜Stupid woman,’ said Matt.
    â€˜Or a very sad one,’ I said.
    â€˜Oh, there’s no suicide note,’ said Chris. ‘Don’t think we didn’t check,’ he added smugly.
    â€˜Her whole life was probably a suicide note,’ I said, thinking of the Stevie Smith poem about drowning. ‘You can’t behave like that if you’re happy,’ I continued. ‘I wish I’d made an effort. I just let her make me mad. If I’d tried –’
    Chris looked at me sharply. ‘Any particular reason? For you to be mad with her?’
    â€˜She was unkind.’ I stopped. I didn’t want to tell him about Nyree’s ogling Shazia’s husband. Nor did I want to introduce my cousin Andy at this stage of the conversation. ‘I might be unkind myself at times, but I don’t really like unkind people.’
    â€˜I think you’re very kind,’ Chris said, ‘for all you pretend to be waspish.’
    â€˜I am waspish. I’m waspish because I should have found other ways of dealing with my irritation. I could have hidden her sleeping tablets, rationed them or whatever.’
    Then we remembered we had an audience. Chris coughed slightly and resumed his official voice: ‘The pathologist reports she took round about the standard dose. So you probably wouldn’t have done any good if you had tried to interfere.’
    â€˜She wouldn’t have thanked you for trying,’