Read Online Retard by Daniel I Russell - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Daniel I Russell
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nothing.
Christine checked her watch. Sally should be home from work, unless she’d decided to go drinking with Jason down at the pub.
She walked into the short hallway, wincing from the cold draught on her toes that seeped from under the front door. Picking up the phone, she dialled Sally’s number, placing her drink on the small table and playing with the cord.
“Come on, Sal.”
Her friend answered after a few rings, sounding impatient. “Yeah?”
“Sally, it’s me. Just wondering if you talked to Jason about The Fabled Four toy for Wes. You know, from that guy.”
“Not yet,” she said, “but we’re heading down the pub now. Jason has a pool comp. I’ll speak to the guy for you, unless you want to come down too?”
Christine circled the rim of her glass with a finger. She’d had a taste now, and nothing would be better than to join her friend for a proper drink. None of this cheap fake shit. A decent cocktail or even an ice cold beer with her friend would hit the spot. And pool! She hadn’t played pool in years. Might even be some nice guys down there if a comp was on.
She gripped the handset tighter.
“Sorry but Wesley’s sick. Only person I’d trust to babysit him is you.”
They had a quick catch up, Christine leaving out the morning’s adventure at the school, before both hung up. Christine prayed that the bloke would be at the pub and still had that action figure for sale.
It can be his reward. Once I can pull his head from the clouds and have him behaving.
***
The bottle certainly did have a few good drinks left. Christine poured the remainder into the glass, her third, and the lemonade was running out quicker than the vodka. This would be a strong one.
Just right, she thought and smiled, feeling the booze rush through her blood, wrapping her body in a cosy, tingling blanket. Just numb enough to deal with him.
Testing the drink with a small sip, and by Christ it was strong, she plodded from the kitchen to the bottom of the stairs. She clicked on the light. Leaving Wesley to think about his actions had swallowed up the day. Night reigned at the windows. Ghostly light flickered from the television screen in the lounge.
Christine had stripped down to her night attire: underwear and a hanging nightie, this one sporting a sleeping dog in a nightcap. She ascended the stairs with her arm outstretched to the side, pressing against the wall for balance while nursing her drink with her free hand.
“Wesleeeeey,” she called and giggled. He’d be so happy to finally be allowed out of his room. “Wesleeeey…”
The chair from the kitchen remained wedged under his doorhandle. Unless he’d somehow slipped out of the window—which wouldn’t surprise her—her son had actually stayed in his room. For once! Is this all it took to outsmart the little shit? Some good ol’ fashioned, Great British discipline?
She approached the chair and gave it and experimental rattle. Still holding fast.
Smiling, Christine pulled it free and placed it to the side. No doubt she would be requiring its loyal service again in the near future. She opened the door, expecting to find Wesley playing at the centre of his brightly lit room or reading on the bed.
The door opened to darkness. Only the streetlight could be seen, lighting the thin curtains in a hazy rectangle.
“Wesley?”
She gripped the door frame and edged inside, hand searching for the light switch.
This was not like her son, not at all. He would barely sleep in a pitch-black room in the middle of the night, let alone a relatively early evening. Not that he was afraid of the dark, just Wesley had more energy than other children, an endless reserve of play that could never be turned off by an exhausted mother. No, this did not sit right one little bit.
“Wes? Sweetie?”
The sudden unease squeezed her heart, and with all the alcohol still swimming through her system, Christine swallowed down her rising nausea. The smell in here
Christine checked her watch. Sally should be home from work, unless she’d decided to go drinking with Jason down at the pub.
She walked into the short hallway, wincing from the cold draught on her toes that seeped from under the front door. Picking up the phone, she dialled Sally’s number, placing her drink on the small table and playing with the cord.
“Come on, Sal.”
Her friend answered after a few rings, sounding impatient. “Yeah?”
“Sally, it’s me. Just wondering if you talked to Jason about The Fabled Four toy for Wes. You know, from that guy.”
“Not yet,” she said, “but we’re heading down the pub now. Jason has a pool comp. I’ll speak to the guy for you, unless you want to come down too?”
Christine circled the rim of her glass with a finger. She’d had a taste now, and nothing would be better than to join her friend for a proper drink. None of this cheap fake shit. A decent cocktail or even an ice cold beer with her friend would hit the spot. And pool! She hadn’t played pool in years. Might even be some nice guys down there if a comp was on.
She gripped the handset tighter.
“Sorry but Wesley’s sick. Only person I’d trust to babysit him is you.”
They had a quick catch up, Christine leaving out the morning’s adventure at the school, before both hung up. Christine prayed that the bloke would be at the pub and still had that action figure for sale.
It can be his reward. Once I can pull his head from the clouds and have him behaving.
***
The bottle certainly did have a few good drinks left. Christine poured the remainder into the glass, her third, and the lemonade was running out quicker than the vodka. This would be a strong one.
Just right, she thought and smiled, feeling the booze rush through her blood, wrapping her body in a cosy, tingling blanket. Just numb enough to deal with him.
Testing the drink with a small sip, and by Christ it was strong, she plodded from the kitchen to the bottom of the stairs. She clicked on the light. Leaving Wesley to think about his actions had swallowed up the day. Night reigned at the windows. Ghostly light flickered from the television screen in the lounge.
Christine had stripped down to her night attire: underwear and a hanging nightie, this one sporting a sleeping dog in a nightcap. She ascended the stairs with her arm outstretched to the side, pressing against the wall for balance while nursing her drink with her free hand.
“Wesleeeeey,” she called and giggled. He’d be so happy to finally be allowed out of his room. “Wesleeeey…”
The chair from the kitchen remained wedged under his doorhandle. Unless he’d somehow slipped out of the window—which wouldn’t surprise her—her son had actually stayed in his room. For once! Is this all it took to outsmart the little shit? Some good ol’ fashioned, Great British discipline?
She approached the chair and gave it and experimental rattle. Still holding fast.
Smiling, Christine pulled it free and placed it to the side. No doubt she would be requiring its loyal service again in the near future. She opened the door, expecting to find Wesley playing at the centre of his brightly lit room or reading on the bed.
The door opened to darkness. Only the streetlight could be seen, lighting the thin curtains in a hazy rectangle.
“Wesley?”
She gripped the door frame and edged inside, hand searching for the light switch.
This was not like her son, not at all. He would barely sleep in a pitch-black room in the middle of the night, let alone a relatively early evening. Not that he was afraid of the dark, just Wesley had more energy than other children, an endless reserve of play that could never be turned off by an exhausted mother. No, this did not sit right one little bit.
“Wes? Sweetie?”
The sudden unease squeezed her heart, and with all the alcohol still swimming through her system, Christine swallowed down her rising nausea. The smell in here
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