Read Online My Brilliant Idea (And How It Caused My Downfall) by Stuart David - Free Book Online Page B

two new additions to his appearance since I last saw him, though. A massive black eye that’s all badly swollen and oozy, and a big chunk missing out of the middle of his chin. He hurries me into the kitchen, where he really is burning some toast. The place smells like it’s on fire, and smoke pours out of the toaster where two charcoal-black pieces of toast sit smoldering. Uncle Ray takes hold of them and throws them into the bin. Then he opens a cupboard door and clatters about amongst some glasses.
    â€œSit down,” he tells me. “Are you drinking yet? Will you have a beer?”
    â€œNo, thanks,” I say.
    â€œYou’re still not drinking? Come on, Jack. What age are you now? Fifteen?”
    I nod.
    â€œI won’t say a word to your dad,” he tells me. “Scout’s honor. Half a bottle?”
    I shake my head. “I don’t like beer,” I tell him. “It muddles my thinking. I need to keep my head clear in case a new idea pops up.”
    He nods sagely. “Understood,” he says. “Forget I asked. What’s the latest scheme, then? Have you got anything on the go?”
    â€œI’ve got a few things bubbling,” I tell him.
    He sits down at the table, pouring beer from a bottle into his own glass. “Let’s have a little preview, then,” he says. “What’s the inside lowdown?”
    Inside lowdown?
    â€œIt’s quite complicated,” I tell him. “I’m working on an online thing, but I have to try and trick a few people into helping me with it.”
    â€œYou’ll go all the way,” he tells me. “You’re like me—you’ve got the spunk. Have you noticed my eye, by the way?”
    I try to pretend I haven’t.
    â€œBelter, isn’t it?” he says. “Hurts like a bastard.” He touches it lightly with his finger and winces. “How about the chin?” he asks, pushing it out toward me as if I wouldn’t be able to see it otherwise.
    â€œWhat happened?” I ask him.
    â€œDissatisfied customer,” he says. “Some turnip asked me to stop singing while I was driving. Me! ‘That’s what I do,’ I told him. ‘You don’t get in my taxi if you’re not going to appreciate it. Everybody knows the deal.’ Not this guy. Told me it was giving him a headache. A headache! He told me to quit it or he’d make me quit it. So I stopped the cab, right there. I told him to get out, and he said he’d get out if I got out with him, if we could take it onto the street. So I got out.” He touches his eye and winces again. “Mind you,” he says, “you should see the state of him.”
    â€œIs he bad?” I ask.
    â€œWell . . .” he says, “mainly psychological damage, I suppose. Badly scarred emotionally.” He laughs. “Anyway, all’s well that ends well. We both got back into the cab when the thing was over, and he gave me a nice enough tip when I dropped him off. Even joined in with the singing for a wee while. Told me I wasn’t really all that bad. Cheeky bastard. Not all that bad! I could’ve been the next Pavarotti.”
    He’s always saying that. I don’t know if it’s true. I don’t really know who Pavarotti is. Maybe he could have been, if Pavarotti is someone who can’t really sing.
    â€œSo what brings you to this corner of paradise?” he asks me. “Come to see your cousin?”
    I nod. “I couldn’t find him in school,” I say.
    Uncle Ray drains most of the beer out of his glass, slurping and burping. Then he wipes his mustache. “He should be back soon,” he says. “Mind you, I say that, but Christ knows where he is. We’re not talking at the minute. I’ve had it with him, to be honest. I should speak to your dad, see if he’ll do a swap. How come I wind up with the idiot? You should come and live here, Jack. We’d