Read Online The Man Who Built the World by Chris Ward - Free Book Online
Authors: Chris Ward
Tags: Mystery
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her tears. They had come all of a sudden in a torrent and she had been unable to hold them back.
She thought of the kids, tucked up in bed, asleep down the corridor, and listened to her own steady breathing as she waited in vain for sleep.
Her fingers lifted to brush her face, touch the fading mark of the bruise. She felt a small numbing pain, so small as to be barely noticeable, and yet at the same time it meant so much.
To her, and for the children.
# ##
Bethany’s Diary, December 21st, 1984
Helped Daddy put up the tree in the lounge today. Daddy and Uncle Red got it from out in the woods, chopped it down themselves – chop chop!! – and carried it in from the garden. It towers over all of us, and I spent ages covering it with tinsel and jingly balls and little angels and fairies, including one big one for the very top which Uncle Red had to fetch a ladder for. It looks beautiful. I wish Mummy could have been here to see it, all sparkly and glittery, but Mummy is staying out in the cold this year. I wanted to ask Daddy why, but he just looked so sad as he stared up at the tree.
I wanted to ask Matty instead, but he just stared at me with horrible eyes. I looked around behind me at the fire burning in the grate, and couldn’t help but wonder why Matty hates me so. Daddy loves me, but Matty hates me. Only Daddy and Uncle Red seem to love me, now Mummy’s gone. She can’t really give me love when she looks so cold peering in through the glass.
Maybe she might surprise us all, and come back for Christmas. Who knows, diary? Who knows??
12
Matt thought the late night walk would have cleared his hangover. But no, there it was, thudding away at the inside of his skull as he awoke, like a heavy metal band warming up for a farewell tour. He gripped his temples with his fingertips, and squeezed as though he might squash the pain out through his eyes.
‘Fucking . . . hell .’
Even now he couldn’t remember how many glasses of whiskey he had shared with his f ather. The whole evening was little more than a blur, but no matter, he had to push it out of his mind.
His sister was getting buried later today.
He climbed out of bed, took a brief shower, and threw on some fresh clothes. He hung the damp ones from yesterday over a radiator, despite a small, hand–written note pinned to the back of the door that warned him otherwise. He slipped on his shoes and stumbled downstairs to catch the tail end of breakfast.
Mrs. Carter had cleared away the breakfast things for the other guests, but with a little pe rsuasion agreed to cook Matt a small fry-up, them being old friends and all that. He gobbled down the bacon and eggs greedily, ignored the tomato juice on his chin and spooned down the beans and mushrooms. Nothing helped the hangover, but at least he satiated his hunger.
As he sat back at the table, sipping on a strong coffee, he remembered vaguely that his f ather had gone over the funeral arrangements last night. Yes, the service would be held in the church in Tamerton, with a small private goodbye up at the old chapel, and a reception back at the house. Matt’s assistance wasn’t required in anything; he came as a guest alone. Which, of course, suited him fine.
Matt thanked Mrs. Carter and went outside. He needed a little fresh air, thought it might help his head. The service was due to begin at one, which gave Matt a few hours to kill. He paused only briefly, remembering that the pub wouldn’t open until eleven, and then turned on to the road that headed up the hill toward the moor.
The fog had partially lifted, some of it burned off by the di m, hidden sun. It was still chilly, though, and Matt had to stuff his cold–stiffened fingers into the pockets of his jacket for warmth. Only the graze on his right hand gave off any heat, in the form of a tingling, numbing pain.
He could cope with the imposing atmosphere during daylight, even the sudden flood of nerves
She thought of the kids, tucked up in bed, asleep down the corridor, and listened to her own steady breathing as she waited in vain for sleep.
Her fingers lifted to brush her face, touch the fading mark of the bruise. She felt a small numbing pain, so small as to be barely noticeable, and yet at the same time it meant so much.
To her, and for the children.
# ##
Bethany’s Diary, December 21st, 1984
Helped Daddy put up the tree in the lounge today. Daddy and Uncle Red got it from out in the woods, chopped it down themselves – chop chop!! – and carried it in from the garden. It towers over all of us, and I spent ages covering it with tinsel and jingly balls and little angels and fairies, including one big one for the very top which Uncle Red had to fetch a ladder for. It looks beautiful. I wish Mummy could have been here to see it, all sparkly and glittery, but Mummy is staying out in the cold this year. I wanted to ask Daddy why, but he just looked so sad as he stared up at the tree.
I wanted to ask Matty instead, but he just stared at me with horrible eyes. I looked around behind me at the fire burning in the grate, and couldn’t help but wonder why Matty hates me so. Daddy loves me, but Matty hates me. Only Daddy and Uncle Red seem to love me, now Mummy’s gone. She can’t really give me love when she looks so cold peering in through the glass.
Maybe she might surprise us all, and come back for Christmas. Who knows, diary? Who knows??
12
Matt thought the late night walk would have cleared his hangover. But no, there it was, thudding away at the inside of his skull as he awoke, like a heavy metal band warming up for a farewell tour. He gripped his temples with his fingertips, and squeezed as though he might squash the pain out through his eyes.
‘Fucking . . . hell .’
Even now he couldn’t remember how many glasses of whiskey he had shared with his f ather. The whole evening was little more than a blur, but no matter, he had to push it out of his mind.
His sister was getting buried later today.
He climbed out of bed, took a brief shower, and threw on some fresh clothes. He hung the damp ones from yesterday over a radiator, despite a small, hand–written note pinned to the back of the door that warned him otherwise. He slipped on his shoes and stumbled downstairs to catch the tail end of breakfast.
Mrs. Carter had cleared away the breakfast things for the other guests, but with a little pe rsuasion agreed to cook Matt a small fry-up, them being old friends and all that. He gobbled down the bacon and eggs greedily, ignored the tomato juice on his chin and spooned down the beans and mushrooms. Nothing helped the hangover, but at least he satiated his hunger.
As he sat back at the table, sipping on a strong coffee, he remembered vaguely that his f ather had gone over the funeral arrangements last night. Yes, the service would be held in the church in Tamerton, with a small private goodbye up at the old chapel, and a reception back at the house. Matt’s assistance wasn’t required in anything; he came as a guest alone. Which, of course, suited him fine.
Matt thanked Mrs. Carter and went outside. He needed a little fresh air, thought it might help his head. The service was due to begin at one, which gave Matt a few hours to kill. He paused only briefly, remembering that the pub wouldn’t open until eleven, and then turned on to the road that headed up the hill toward the moor.
The fog had partially lifted, some of it burned off by the di m, hidden sun. It was still chilly, though, and Matt had to stuff his cold–stiffened fingers into the pockets of his jacket for warmth. Only the graze on his right hand gave off any heat, in the form of a tingling, numbing pain.
He could cope with the imposing atmosphere during daylight, even the sudden flood of nerves
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