Read Online The Loney by Andrew Michael Hurley - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Andrew Michael Hurley
Ads: Link
heard Mummer. She’ll only get cross.’
He flipped through a few pages until he found the story that he wanted.
‘Alright, Hanny. But afterwards you’ve got to go to sleep or I’ll get it in the neck.’
***
We had barely got half way through the story before Hanny was snoring. I turned off the lamp but I couldn’t sleep at all and lay there in the darkness for a while before I fetched a torch out of my bag, took up the loose floorboard and brought out the rifle to look at it again. I felt around the metalwork and found the bolt that opened the receiver. It was empty of course. I closed it up again with a quiet click and then slipped it back under the floorboards.
I lay down on my bed once more and tried to sleep but I was too restless, and rather than staring at the dark, I went out to look at the photographs of the taxidermist and his wife that had been placed at intervals up the stairs.
He was a diminutive man and looked to have owned only one shirt in all the years he had lived at Moorings. He wore bottle-end glasses and slicked his hair back over his head. He looked a little like Charles Hawtrey, I thought. Or Himmler.
In each shot, he and his wife posed with a stuffed animal between them. A lioness. A beaver up on its back legs. A kangaroo wearing boxing gloves. The date neatly written in the corner.
The poor sod. Apparently he lost it when his wife died. Ended up sectioned in some hospital near Preston, where I always imagined him painting those seascapes over and over again. The boats getting a little smaller and the clouds a little bigger each time, until there was nothing but tempest.
As I was looking at the photographs, someone came out of the sitting room and knocked softly at Father Bernard’s door. From the sniffing I knew it was Mrs Belderboss.
‘Hello, Father,’ she said, when the door opened.
‘Mrs Belderboss.’
‘Did Esther mention confession to you?’
‘She did.’
‘Could I come in, Father?
‘Aye, of course,’ said Father Bernard. ‘But are you sure you want to? It’s getting late.’
Mrs Belderboss’s voice went down to a whisper. ‘I know, but Reg is asleep on the sofa,’ she said. ‘And I thought while I’ve the opportunity. There’s been something I’ve been wanting to get off my chest for a while now.’
She went into Father Bernard’s room and closed the door. I stayed very still to try and hear what was going on but there were only mumbles. Even at the foot of the stairs, their voices were muffled. I checked that no one else was around and slipped into the broom cupboard. Settling in next to the brushes and mops I could hear them both clearly. The wall between the cupboard and Father Bernard’s room was only made out of plywood and where the damp had warped the wood there were gaps that let in little skewers of light.
I didn’t mean to stay. As an ethical crime, it fell off the end of the scale. Listening to Mrs Belderboss’s confession was like watching her take off her clothes. But now that I was ensconced, it would have been difficult to get out again without making a racket, and I reasoned that it was better to stay put and wait until they had finished. I couldn’t imagine that Mrs Belderboss had very much to confess anyway.
I heard the chinking of the metal rings as Father Bernard yanked the curtain around the wash basin.
Mrs Belderboss rhymed off the Act of Contrition and Father Bernard said, ‘What is it you want to tell me?’
‘It’s Reg, Father,’ said Mrs Belderboss.
‘Aye.’
‘I’m worried about him.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘He won’t sleep, Father. At home, I mean. He just lies there, staring at the ceiling until he gets up and goes out.’
‘Where does he go?’
‘Well, this is it. I’ve asked him but he won’t answer me, not properly. He just says he can’t sleep and walks around to take his mind off things. Off what things? I ask him, but he just changes the subject, or gets cross with me.’
‘Is it his
He flipped through a few pages until he found the story that he wanted.
‘Alright, Hanny. But afterwards you’ve got to go to sleep or I’ll get it in the neck.’
***
We had barely got half way through the story before Hanny was snoring. I turned off the lamp but I couldn’t sleep at all and lay there in the darkness for a while before I fetched a torch out of my bag, took up the loose floorboard and brought out the rifle to look at it again. I felt around the metalwork and found the bolt that opened the receiver. It was empty of course. I closed it up again with a quiet click and then slipped it back under the floorboards.
I lay down on my bed once more and tried to sleep but I was too restless, and rather than staring at the dark, I went out to look at the photographs of the taxidermist and his wife that had been placed at intervals up the stairs.
He was a diminutive man and looked to have owned only one shirt in all the years he had lived at Moorings. He wore bottle-end glasses and slicked his hair back over his head. He looked a little like Charles Hawtrey, I thought. Or Himmler.
In each shot, he and his wife posed with a stuffed animal between them. A lioness. A beaver up on its back legs. A kangaroo wearing boxing gloves. The date neatly written in the corner.
The poor sod. Apparently he lost it when his wife died. Ended up sectioned in some hospital near Preston, where I always imagined him painting those seascapes over and over again. The boats getting a little smaller and the clouds a little bigger each time, until there was nothing but tempest.
As I was looking at the photographs, someone came out of the sitting room and knocked softly at Father Bernard’s door. From the sniffing I knew it was Mrs Belderboss.
‘Hello, Father,’ she said, when the door opened.
‘Mrs Belderboss.’
‘Did Esther mention confession to you?’
‘She did.’
‘Could I come in, Father?
‘Aye, of course,’ said Father Bernard. ‘But are you sure you want to? It’s getting late.’
Mrs Belderboss’s voice went down to a whisper. ‘I know, but Reg is asleep on the sofa,’ she said. ‘And I thought while I’ve the opportunity. There’s been something I’ve been wanting to get off my chest for a while now.’
She went into Father Bernard’s room and closed the door. I stayed very still to try and hear what was going on but there were only mumbles. Even at the foot of the stairs, their voices were muffled. I checked that no one else was around and slipped into the broom cupboard. Settling in next to the brushes and mops I could hear them both clearly. The wall between the cupboard and Father Bernard’s room was only made out of plywood and where the damp had warped the wood there were gaps that let in little skewers of light.
I didn’t mean to stay. As an ethical crime, it fell off the end of the scale. Listening to Mrs Belderboss’s confession was like watching her take off her clothes. But now that I was ensconced, it would have been difficult to get out again without making a racket, and I reasoned that it was better to stay put and wait until they had finished. I couldn’t imagine that Mrs Belderboss had very much to confess anyway.
I heard the chinking of the metal rings as Father Bernard yanked the curtain around the wash basin.
Mrs Belderboss rhymed off the Act of Contrition and Father Bernard said, ‘What is it you want to tell me?’
‘It’s Reg, Father,’ said Mrs Belderboss.
‘Aye.’
‘I’m worried about him.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘He won’t sleep, Father. At home, I mean. He just lies there, staring at the ceiling until he gets up and goes out.’
‘Where does he go?’
‘Well, this is it. I’ve asked him but he won’t answer me, not properly. He just says he can’t sleep and walks around to take his mind off things. Off what things? I ask him, but he just changes the subject, or gets cross with me.’
‘Is it his
Similar Books
