Read Online The Barbershop Seven by Douglas Lindsay - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Douglas Lindsay
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himself in barbaric contemplations.
A Pair Of Breasts
––––––––
M argaret MacDonald glanced up at the television, which had been droning away in the background all morning. They were running over the previous night's football results. She raised her eyebrows. Rangers had lost two-nil at Motherwell. Typical. That was why Reginald had been in such a foul mood when he'd come in last night. And still this morning. Stomping around like a toddler who'd been woken up too early, and then charging out the door without saying a word to her. God, men were so pathetic.
Her eyes remained on the television, but she wasn't watching. She was thinking about Louise, as she had been for the past three days. It wasn't like her to just vanish. Nearly twenty now, and there had been plenty of times in the past when she'd gone off for the night without letting them know where she was. But three days.
Felt that nervous grip on her stomach, the tightening of the muscles, which she'd been experiencing more and more often. Gulped down some tea, tried to put it out of her mind. It wasn't as if she didn't have plenty of other things to think about.
The doorbell rang. She jumped. Looked round in shock, into the hall, could just make out the dark grey of a uniform through the frosted glass of the front door. Swallowed hard to fight back the first tears of foreboding. It was the police. The police with news about Louise.
The doorbell rang again. Feeling the great weight resting upon her shoulders, she rose slowly from the table, inching her way towards the door. Whatever she was going to find out wouldn't be true until she had opened that door and had been informed. Her hand hovered over the key; she wished she could suspend time; wished she could stand there forever, and never have to learn what she was about to be told.
She turned the key, slowly swinging the door open, the first tears already beginning to roll down her cheeks.
'You all right there, hen, you're looking a bit upset?'
She started to smile, and then a laugh came bursting from her mouth. A big, booming, guttural laugh which she had never heard herself make before. She put her hand out, touched the arm of the postman.
'I'm sorry, Davey, it's nothing. I thought you were going to be someone else, that's all.'
'Christ, who were you expecting? The Pope?'
She laughed again, and for the first time looked past him. It was a dark and murky morning, the rain falling in a relentless drizzle. The winds of the previous day had abated, but still it was horrible, as it had been for weeks.
'God, it's a foul morning to be out, Davey.'
The postman smiled. 'I'm not in it for the weather, hen.' He rummaged inside his bag and pulled out a small parcel. 'There's this and a few letters. I'd better be going.'
She took the post from him, looking through it to see if there was one with Louise's handwriting. Looked up to see Davey MacLean already walking down the road, hunched against the rain, the hood of his jacket drawn back over his head.
'Thanks, Davey. I'll see you later.' He responded with a cool hand lifted into the gloom and then, the Steven Seagal of his trade, went about his business with a certain violent panache.
She closed the door, retreated into the kitchen, shivering at the cold weather. Dropped the letters onto the table – nothing from Louise, fought the clawing disappointment – and studied the parcel. She wasn't expecting anything, didn't recognise the handwriting. Postmarked Ayr. Ayr? Who did she know in Ayr?
Then suddenly it was there. A horrible sense of foreboding. A cold hand touching her neck, making the hairs rise; the chill grip on her heart. She let the package fall from her fingers and land on the table. Her stomach tightened, she began to feel sick. Walked slowly over to the drawer beside the sink and lifted out a pair of scissors. She started back to the table, but suddenly the vomit rose in her throat, and she was bent over the sink, retching violently,
A Pair Of Breasts
––––––––
M argaret MacDonald glanced up at the television, which had been droning away in the background all morning. They were running over the previous night's football results. She raised her eyebrows. Rangers had lost two-nil at Motherwell. Typical. That was why Reginald had been in such a foul mood when he'd come in last night. And still this morning. Stomping around like a toddler who'd been woken up too early, and then charging out the door without saying a word to her. God, men were so pathetic.
Her eyes remained on the television, but she wasn't watching. She was thinking about Louise, as she had been for the past three days. It wasn't like her to just vanish. Nearly twenty now, and there had been plenty of times in the past when she'd gone off for the night without letting them know where she was. But three days.
Felt that nervous grip on her stomach, the tightening of the muscles, which she'd been experiencing more and more often. Gulped down some tea, tried to put it out of her mind. It wasn't as if she didn't have plenty of other things to think about.
The doorbell rang. She jumped. Looked round in shock, into the hall, could just make out the dark grey of a uniform through the frosted glass of the front door. Swallowed hard to fight back the first tears of foreboding. It was the police. The police with news about Louise.
The doorbell rang again. Feeling the great weight resting upon her shoulders, she rose slowly from the table, inching her way towards the door. Whatever she was going to find out wouldn't be true until she had opened that door and had been informed. Her hand hovered over the key; she wished she could suspend time; wished she could stand there forever, and never have to learn what she was about to be told.
She turned the key, slowly swinging the door open, the first tears already beginning to roll down her cheeks.
'You all right there, hen, you're looking a bit upset?'
She started to smile, and then a laugh came bursting from her mouth. A big, booming, guttural laugh which she had never heard herself make before. She put her hand out, touched the arm of the postman.
'I'm sorry, Davey, it's nothing. I thought you were going to be someone else, that's all.'
'Christ, who were you expecting? The Pope?'
She laughed again, and for the first time looked past him. It was a dark and murky morning, the rain falling in a relentless drizzle. The winds of the previous day had abated, but still it was horrible, as it had been for weeks.
'God, it's a foul morning to be out, Davey.'
The postman smiled. 'I'm not in it for the weather, hen.' He rummaged inside his bag and pulled out a small parcel. 'There's this and a few letters. I'd better be going.'
She took the post from him, looking through it to see if there was one with Louise's handwriting. Looked up to see Davey MacLean already walking down the road, hunched against the rain, the hood of his jacket drawn back over his head.
'Thanks, Davey. I'll see you later.' He responded with a cool hand lifted into the gloom and then, the Steven Seagal of his trade, went about his business with a certain violent panache.
She closed the door, retreated into the kitchen, shivering at the cold weather. Dropped the letters onto the table – nothing from Louise, fought the clawing disappointment – and studied the parcel. She wasn't expecting anything, didn't recognise the handwriting. Postmarked Ayr. Ayr? Who did she know in Ayr?
Then suddenly it was there. A horrible sense of foreboding. A cold hand touching her neck, making the hairs rise; the chill grip on her heart. She let the package fall from her fingers and land on the table. Her stomach tightened, she began to feel sick. Walked slowly over to the drawer beside the sink and lifted out a pair of scissors. She started back to the table, but suddenly the vomit rose in her throat, and she was bent over the sink, retching violently,
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