Read Online Natural History by Neil Cross - Free Book Online Page A

back on a monitor.
    Perhaps Richard hadn’t touched Jane’s arse. He’d touched the arse of a woman who had been transfigured by appearing on television. Charlie understood how women could be transfigured that way. He thought of Robin and Sam, parochial demi-gods in that low-ceilinged nightclub. And he thought of the erection he’d endured as he imagined a filthy lorry driver rooting her in a stinking toilet—how he’d taken horrified pleasure at the thought of her being defiled, his grimy hands palpating her little tits. And her humiliation, even as she revelled in it; biting on his hairy shoulder to keep from crying out.
    He said, ‘You’re happy, though?’
    Her eyes were a curious light grey, and they met his, unblinking, for several seconds. Then she held out a hand and hauled him to his feet. The strong muscles in her forearms. The freckles on her nose and cheeks.
    â€˜I’ll be a lot happier when this place is up and running.’
    Charlie stood with the roll-up in one hand and twisted at the waist to dust himself off.
    Jane clapped his shoulder, fraternally, and walked away.
    Inside his shiny Land Cruiser, Richard made a show of stuffing whatever he’d been reading into the glove compartment, starting the engine and reversing out of the car park.
    And Jane wandered through the open gates of Monkeyland, her self-selected kingdom.
    Sound Mick and Camra Dave weren’t given permission to film Jo meeting her prospective new personal tutor, even though Richard wanted them to, for human interest.
    This was 3 February 1996.
    The tutor lived several miles from Innsmouth, in a small white house which stood far back from the twisty, hedge-lined road. Its path was bordered by winter-naked rose bushes.
    Jane knocked on the door and they waited while, within the silence, there was a sense of something stirring. And then Mr Nately came to the door. He was younger than Jo had expected—no more than thirty. He looked like a Spitfire pilot; boyish and pale, with a lick of strawberry hair.
    Jane kissed him on one cheek and said hello. Patrick shook his hand and said, ‘Hello, John.’
    And then Jane said: ‘So! This is Jo. And Jo, this is Mr Nately.’
    Mr Nately smiled at her. It was a lepidopterist’s smile; a contented squint.
    He said, ‘Pleased to meet you, Jo. Come in.’
    Inside, the cottage was antique and orderly and it smelled of beeswax and lavender. The furniture belonged to an older person—stuffed armchairs with antimacassars, dark wooden tables with lions’ feet.
    Mr Nately had laid out tea and biscuits. He poured them all a cup of tea, the colour of the furniture, and told Jo, ‘I teach all the usual subjects, up to A level. Everything except Physical Education.’
    â€˜How big are the classes?’
    â€˜Oh, one at a time is all I can handle, I’m afraid.’
    Jane told her, ‘Mr Nately tutors Gifted Children.’
    Jo looked around the room—an old lady’s room with no old lady in it.
    â€˜My last pupil left me in August,’ said Mr Nately. ‘He’s gone on to bigger and better things.’
    â€˜Oxford,’ said Jane. ‘He was only sixteen.’
    â€˜And about the PE thing,’ said Patrick. ‘What we thought we’d do—a couple of times a week, you and I could go swimming together. Or running. The roads are quiet round here.’
    Jo nodded, ‘Okay,’ and the grandfather clock ticked four times.
    Mr Nately said, ‘So. I understand you’re interested in astronomy.’
    Jo waited for him to say, golly, or gosh, or to make a popping goldfish mouth. But Mr Nately just put his hands in his pockets and said, ‘Do you know Hyakutake?’
    â€˜Sorry?’
    â€˜Hyakutake. A few days ago. a Japanese astronomer—Mr Hyakutake­—he sighted a new comet. He’s a lucky man, actually. He was browsing the same patch of sky where he’d