Read Online The Irresistible Inheritance Of Wilberforce by Paul Torday - Free Book Online
Authors: Paul Torday
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safe part of town and the streets were usually busy.
I got out and paid off the driver, picked up my bag from the back of the taxi, and started to walk up one of the streets that runs parallel to the main avenue, which brings you out in a small park at the back of the hotel.
In fact, the street was deserted, but as I walked along it I heard the hurrying echoes of other footsteps. Startled, I turned around. There was no one behind me. I walked on and then stopped again. In front of me, in the middle of the road, was a manhole cover. I was walking up the middle of the street, avoiding its shadowed edges, when the manhole cover started to rotate. A second later it tipped out of its seat and was pushed aside into the road. Two small and very grimy children, dressed in assorted rags, climbed out. More street children: there were thousands of them said to be living in the rain drains beneath the city. Every now and then the police went looking for them and culled a few, and they vanished into the foul drains, where no one would ever follow them. These two scrambled out into the street. They saw me, decided I was not dangerous and approached with outstretched hands, begging for money. They spoke a few words in a patois of Indian and Spanish that I could not follow, but the meaning was clear.
I was just getting out a banknote to give them when one of them looked behind me and said, ‘Quién viene detrás de ese hombre?’ and the other replied, ‘No me gusta la pinta que tiene. Vámanos.’
They both ran off into the dark, without taking the money I was offering. I smelled the smell of mould and rottenness, and I saw the flap of some dark garment in the corner of my eye. As I did so, the meaning of what they had just said arranged itself in my mind: ‘Who is that walking behind the man?’ ‘I don’t like the look of it. Let’s get out of here.’
I turned about in a hurry and walked straight into the arms of the person who was following me.
The person I had bumped into caught my elbow, and steadied me. ‘Whoa,’ he said. ‘Take it easy!’ It was Colin. He did not let go of my elbow, but steered me to the side of the road, and back to the pavement.
I felt dislocated in time and space. I couldn’t remember who I was, or where I had just been.
Colin spoke again, and the sound of his voice dispelled some of the confusion. ‘What were you thinking of?’ he asked, ‘- walking down the middle of the road? There were half a dozen taxis honking their horns behind you. I think they had just about decided to run you over. We had an appointment this afternoon, remember?’
I didn’t remember, but I followed Colin gratefully to my own front door in Half Moon Street. My heart was still thumping from the shock of bumping into him. I must have been daydreaming. He helped me find my keys and we let ourselves in. Coming in from the street I realised with a shock that the house smelt bad: stale air, wine lees, a smell of mould coming from somewhere. For the last few weeks I had done without a cleaner. In part it was to save money but also I had done something to upset the agency that sent the cleaners, possibly as a result of forgetting to pay them.
We went into the kitchen; I saw Colin wrinkle his nose and look at the stack of unwashed crockery and glasses beside the sink. ‘Don’t you ever tidy up?’ he asked. He pulled out one of the chairs at the kitchen table, flicked some dust from it with his handkerchief, and then sat down.
‘I’m going to have a glass of wine,’ I said. ‘Would you like one?’
‘I’ll join you, if it helps,’ said Colin. ‘Maybe a drink would do you good, for once. You were as white as a sheet when I bumped into you just now. Who did you think I was?’
‘Oh, just somebody I didn’t want to meet.’
I went to the wine rack and took a bottle of Château Cheval Blanc 1953 from it, opened it and poured a glass each. The wine tasted thin, spiritless. I sniffed it but could smell
I got out and paid off the driver, picked up my bag from the back of the taxi, and started to walk up one of the streets that runs parallel to the main avenue, which brings you out in a small park at the back of the hotel.
In fact, the street was deserted, but as I walked along it I heard the hurrying echoes of other footsteps. Startled, I turned around. There was no one behind me. I walked on and then stopped again. In front of me, in the middle of the road, was a manhole cover. I was walking up the middle of the street, avoiding its shadowed edges, when the manhole cover started to rotate. A second later it tipped out of its seat and was pushed aside into the road. Two small and very grimy children, dressed in assorted rags, climbed out. More street children: there were thousands of them said to be living in the rain drains beneath the city. Every now and then the police went looking for them and culled a few, and they vanished into the foul drains, where no one would ever follow them. These two scrambled out into the street. They saw me, decided I was not dangerous and approached with outstretched hands, begging for money. They spoke a few words in a patois of Indian and Spanish that I could not follow, but the meaning was clear.
I was just getting out a banknote to give them when one of them looked behind me and said, ‘Quién viene detrás de ese hombre?’ and the other replied, ‘No me gusta la pinta que tiene. Vámanos.’
They both ran off into the dark, without taking the money I was offering. I smelled the smell of mould and rottenness, and I saw the flap of some dark garment in the corner of my eye. As I did so, the meaning of what they had just said arranged itself in my mind: ‘Who is that walking behind the man?’ ‘I don’t like the look of it. Let’s get out of here.’
I turned about in a hurry and walked straight into the arms of the person who was following me.
The person I had bumped into caught my elbow, and steadied me. ‘Whoa,’ he said. ‘Take it easy!’ It was Colin. He did not let go of my elbow, but steered me to the side of the road, and back to the pavement.
I felt dislocated in time and space. I couldn’t remember who I was, or where I had just been.
Colin spoke again, and the sound of his voice dispelled some of the confusion. ‘What were you thinking of?’ he asked, ‘- walking down the middle of the road? There were half a dozen taxis honking their horns behind you. I think they had just about decided to run you over. We had an appointment this afternoon, remember?’
I didn’t remember, but I followed Colin gratefully to my own front door in Half Moon Street. My heart was still thumping from the shock of bumping into him. I must have been daydreaming. He helped me find my keys and we let ourselves in. Coming in from the street I realised with a shock that the house smelt bad: stale air, wine lees, a smell of mould coming from somewhere. For the last few weeks I had done without a cleaner. In part it was to save money but also I had done something to upset the agency that sent the cleaners, possibly as a result of forgetting to pay them.
We went into the kitchen; I saw Colin wrinkle his nose and look at the stack of unwashed crockery and glasses beside the sink. ‘Don’t you ever tidy up?’ he asked. He pulled out one of the chairs at the kitchen table, flicked some dust from it with his handkerchief, and then sat down.
‘I’m going to have a glass of wine,’ I said. ‘Would you like one?’
‘I’ll join you, if it helps,’ said Colin. ‘Maybe a drink would do you good, for once. You were as white as a sheet when I bumped into you just now. Who did you think I was?’
‘Oh, just somebody I didn’t want to meet.’
I went to the wine rack and took a bottle of Château Cheval Blanc 1953 from it, opened it and poured a glass each. The wine tasted thin, spiritless. I sniffed it but could smell
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