Read Online Voices in an Empty Room by Francis King - Free Book Online

voice of his, little more than a whisper.
    â€˜Yes, he finds it easier when standing,’ Mrs Lockit confirmed. Then she remarked, ‘ Oh, he’s breaking out into a sweat. You can see what a strain it is to him.’
    Henry himself had just noticed the sheen that had begun to appear on the nacre of the forehead and cheekbones.
    â€˜Well, this kind of thing is a strain,’ he said.
    In the drawing room, Lionel lolled back in the chair opposite to Henry’s at the table, his legs thrust out, as on the previous day, and one hand deep in his trouser pocket while the other picked at a spot on his chin. Time he started to shave, Henry thought fastidiously, noticing the fuzz of hair above his upper lip and along the line of his upper jaw, as it caught the late evening sunlight streaming through the window.
    â€˜All right?’ Hugo called.
    Henry looked across at Lionel who, still preoccupied by the spot on his chin, nodded perfunctorily.
    â€˜All right,’ Henry called back.
    â€˜Are you ready?’ Hugo asked Cyril. Cyril, who had begun to tremble slightly, whispered, ‘Yes, sir. Ready.’ Hugo felt an impulse to put an arm round his shoulder and say, ‘Don’t worry, don’t fret yourself, it’s not all that important,’ even though it was, of course it was, important.
    â€˜OK. Let’s have the first.’
    Henry turned over the first of the cards – he and Hugo had put together the ace, king, queen, jack and ten from four packs to make up twenty cards in all – and placed it on the table in front of Lionel. Lionel gave it a glance and then, to Henry’s surprise, looked away from it to gaze out of the window into the street beyond. Could the boys have some confederate out there? But the street was empty. In any case, how could a confederate in the street make contact with Cyril, since the hall had no window other than a fanlight? Lionel showed no strain or even deepening of concentration.
    Beside Hugo, Cyril’s whole body had tensed. The sheen on his forehead had now changed, as though under a magnifying glass, to large drops of sweat. All at once, Hugo was aware of an odour which, from then on, he was always to associate with the boy: not unpleasant but somehow not human and therefore disturbing. Hugo could never really define it to himself but it was akin to the smell of grass recently mown and lying out in the summer sun.
    The boy burped, quietly as before, and, as before, put the tips of those heavily beringed fingers to his lips, with a demure ‘ Excuse me’. Then, ‘Jack,’ he whispered.
    Hugo wrote the number 3 on the sheet of paper on the hall table beside him. He did not know what number Henry had written on a similar sheet of paper in the other room and therefore did not know whether this, the first of the twenty attempts at transmissions, had been successful or not.
    â€˜Ten … queen … queen … king … ten …’ The boy was now shivering uncontrollably, his face grey-green under the light filtering down from the cobwebby fanlight. In the other room, legs thrust out, a hand still deep in his pocket and an expression of boredom, even irritation on his face, Lionel glanced for a moment at each card laid down in turn before him and then stared out at the street once again. It was as though all he wanted was to get out there, among the din of cars and the bustle of people, instead of being cooped up in this frowsty, overcrowded room with this decrepit old geezer.
    â€˜Right. That’s it. Twenty.’ Hugo picked up the sheet of paper beside him. He saw Cyril totter and then lean forward, both hands on the hall table, as though about to vomit. ‘Are you all right?’ He put an arm round the delicate shoulders. ‘Steady on!’
    â€˜I had a sudden turn. Sometimes it affects me like this.’ Cyril straightened, put a hand to his chest. ‘ I’m all right now, thank you,