Read Online The Boy Who Taught the Beekeeper to Read by Susan Hill - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Susan Hill
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had gone in to see him and his face had been odd, twisted out of shape and bloated, like the corpsesof the fish left rotting at low tide. It wasn’t Charlie’s face.
Their mother sat sponging him, dipping her left hand into the enamel bowl of Holy Water and letting it trickle over his forehead and cheeks and run down into his neck.
Mick had stood twisting the loose door handle about. Neither of them had looked at him.
Later that day, a Sister of Mercy had come, a crow flapping slowly up the stairs, and Mick had sat with his back against the banister hearing the soft murmur of the prayers, the voices going up and down in rhythm and the click of the rosary.
He had closed his eyes then, dropped his head and prayed with a raging passion he had never even known the shadow of before. ‘Make him not die. Make him not die. Make him not die.’
He knew it was not a proper prayer, like the prayers being recited by his mother and the Sister of Mercy, it was more, far more.
‘
Make him not die
.’
But Charlie had. The hatred and rage in Mick’s heart were terrifying and which was the strongest,towards God, or himself, or the priest with the yellow forefinger, he could not have said.
The others had caught the rage from him. They were like brothers anyway, and now even more so – but impotent, somehow, until Deano had said that.
‘Goddit. We’ll shoot the crucifix.’
Two days later he went to Deano’s house, at the other end of the Bracken, which was just a block of five dirty white houses joined together and set down as if they had been dropped out of the sky from nowhere, and around them was only scrub and an old square of hardcore where there had once been Nissen huts.
The back door of Deano’s was open and the smell met you with the flies. He was used to it, though it still always choked him. They left raw meat in slabs on the floor for the dogs and open tins of sardines with forks stuck in.
‘Hiya.’
No one turned round. The little dark room was full of them, and all the same, with skinny dirty necks and skinny long arms.
On the plastic tablecloth they’d rigged up a cross of broken sticks punched into a lump of putty. The realcrucifix was on the mantelpiece between two candlesticks and a bunch of plastic flowers.
Mick watched. Norrie held the catapult up quite high, squinting down his nose. He had a cigarette stuck to his lower lip.
‘Pow.’
But the stone skidded onto the floor.
‘Give it here.’
At the end of an hour they were good, but Mick was best and couldn’t miss. They drifted out of the house and sat on the back step, except Norrie, who posed by the fence, eyes half-closed against his cigarette smoke. ‘Can’t miss.’
They looked at Mick.
‘No,’ he said.
‘You got to.’
‘It was Deano’s idea.’
They didn’t bother to answer. The words about Charlie being his brother just hung like Norrie’s smoke on the air. The vengeance was his, by rights.
Norrie flicked his stub into the pile of broken bicycles. ‘Right.’
Mick was almost out of the gate before Deano said, ‘Saturday night. Eleven o’clock.’ He hardly raised hisvoice but Mick was so strung up he’d have heard a whisper half a mile away.
The bad thing was he couldn’t say any prayers about it, so there was no help from anywhere. After Charlie, he knew that prayers might not work, but they’d still seemed possible and now they were not.
He avoided the others and didn’t go near the breakwater, or to the other end of the Bracken.
Once his mother said, ‘Haven’t you got more to do than hang about here?’ in the old way, and the next second he saw the flicker over her face, the wish that she could bite back what she’d said. After Charlie she had sworn never again to say it, never to push him out of the house, never give him another tongue-lashing.
After Charlie, like everything. But it couldn’t have lasted and he was relieved because it felt normal again.
She had opened her purse. ‘Take it. Buy
Their mother sat sponging him, dipping her left hand into the enamel bowl of Holy Water and letting it trickle over his forehead and cheeks and run down into his neck.
Mick had stood twisting the loose door handle about. Neither of them had looked at him.
Later that day, a Sister of Mercy had come, a crow flapping slowly up the stairs, and Mick had sat with his back against the banister hearing the soft murmur of the prayers, the voices going up and down in rhythm and the click of the rosary.
He had closed his eyes then, dropped his head and prayed with a raging passion he had never even known the shadow of before. ‘Make him not die. Make him not die. Make him not die.’
He knew it was not a proper prayer, like the prayers being recited by his mother and the Sister of Mercy, it was more, far more.
‘
Make him not die
.’
But Charlie had. The hatred and rage in Mick’s heart were terrifying and which was the strongest,towards God, or himself, or the priest with the yellow forefinger, he could not have said.
The others had caught the rage from him. They were like brothers anyway, and now even more so – but impotent, somehow, until Deano had said that.
‘Goddit. We’ll shoot the crucifix.’
Two days later he went to Deano’s house, at the other end of the Bracken, which was just a block of five dirty white houses joined together and set down as if they had been dropped out of the sky from nowhere, and around them was only scrub and an old square of hardcore where there had once been Nissen huts.
The back door of Deano’s was open and the smell met you with the flies. He was used to it, though it still always choked him. They left raw meat in slabs on the floor for the dogs and open tins of sardines with forks stuck in.
‘Hiya.’
No one turned round. The little dark room was full of them, and all the same, with skinny dirty necks and skinny long arms.
On the plastic tablecloth they’d rigged up a cross of broken sticks punched into a lump of putty. The realcrucifix was on the mantelpiece between two candlesticks and a bunch of plastic flowers.
Mick watched. Norrie held the catapult up quite high, squinting down his nose. He had a cigarette stuck to his lower lip.
‘Pow.’
But the stone skidded onto the floor.
‘Give it here.’
At the end of an hour they were good, but Mick was best and couldn’t miss. They drifted out of the house and sat on the back step, except Norrie, who posed by the fence, eyes half-closed against his cigarette smoke. ‘Can’t miss.’
They looked at Mick.
‘No,’ he said.
‘You got to.’
‘It was Deano’s idea.’
They didn’t bother to answer. The words about Charlie being his brother just hung like Norrie’s smoke on the air. The vengeance was his, by rights.
Norrie flicked his stub into the pile of broken bicycles. ‘Right.’
Mick was almost out of the gate before Deano said, ‘Saturday night. Eleven o’clock.’ He hardly raised hisvoice but Mick was so strung up he’d have heard a whisper half a mile away.
The bad thing was he couldn’t say any prayers about it, so there was no help from anywhere. After Charlie, he knew that prayers might not work, but they’d still seemed possible and now they were not.
He avoided the others and didn’t go near the breakwater, or to the other end of the Bracken.
Once his mother said, ‘Haven’t you got more to do than hang about here?’ in the old way, and the next second he saw the flicker over her face, the wish that she could bite back what she’d said. After Charlie she had sworn never again to say it, never to push him out of the house, never give him another tongue-lashing.
After Charlie, like everything. But it couldn’t have lasted and he was relieved because it felt normal again.
She had opened her purse. ‘Take it. Buy
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