Read Online Where There is Evil by Sandra Brown - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sandra Brown
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great big bully, an’ he thumps me for nuthin’.’ I heard myself get the words out, before a huge wave of guilt swept over me.
This was an overwhelming betrayal, although I owed my dad no favours. But what of my mother? Hadn’t she enough to cope with, without me giving her extra trouble? She must be worried sick
about me. ‘Maybe I deserved it. I’ll have to go back, I s’pose,’ I added flatly, looking at the floor. ‘They’ll be angry, though.’
He regarded me sympathetically, and handed me a chocolate biscuit, a big treat. I was torn between wanting to stay in front of his one-bar electric fire, and heading for home. I gave him my name
and address, as requested, and he scrawled them in his wee notebook, rather than in the gigantic ledger on the surface of the mahogany counter. I wriggled down reluctantly from the chair.
‘But you’re just round the corner!’ He smiled at me. ‘I’ll walk you round, will I?’
He must have seen how my face changed as my father, dressed immaculately in his uniform, came to our back door. Of my mother, there was no sign, but my father stood there, a smirk on his face
that I couldn’t understand. Smiles passed between him and the friendly policeman as I hovered uncertainly on the step.
‘Think we have some lost property here.’ The young cop spoke in amiable tones.
‘You’ve saved me the bother of coming to the station,’ said my parent affably, placing a hand on my shoulder that told me my nocturnal adventure was over. ‘In you come,
young lady, you’ve had your mum up the pole with worry.’
‘Bit of a tiff, then?’ The young officer’s voice lost none of its friendliness. ‘The lassie’s got a split lip there, but nothing too serious.’
‘Och, just a bit of a dust-up, that’s all,’ replied my dad soothingly. ‘Nothing I can’t handle. Just you let me deal with it, officer.’
I was pushed into the living room, while both of them spoke about kids these days, and then the younger man departed with a wave. I realized with sickening accuracy that there was no way the
younger guy could confront the six-footer standing on our step. They had recognized each other by sight, and the cop was just one of many who jumped on and off my dad’s bus: he would dismiss
what he had seen.
My parents thought that a good way to patch up their marriage was to take a family holiday. Our trip to the small seaside resort of Montrose, however, was an unmitigated
disaster. Not only was the weather bad, but several times my mother ended up in tears. I never knew what had been said when we called in to see relatives who lived near Banchory, and have tea with
them, but when someone referred to an acquaintance called Betty she dissolved into sobs.
Our holiday home, in a back street of Montrose, was Spartan, with meters that had to be fed regularly with shillings to give gas for heating or hot water. The elderly couple who let part of
their home did not appreciate young children, and expected us all to be out for the greater part of the day, rain or shine. We ventured out of town on a number of day trips, all of which seemed to
begin with accusations by my father about how long it took my mother to organize the children and the food, and to end in rows over directions to various places like Brechin and Stonehaven, and
silences. Just as bad were the looks of hatred I received in the driver’s mirror when I suggested we stopped, or played one more game of I Spy for the sake of the two smaller ones.
There were no books to speak of at our lodgings except
The Pilgrim’s Progress
, which I devoured in a day. The one outing voted a success was to the lighthouse at nearby Scurdie
Ness, where my brothers and I had the chance to run about and explore without being told to be quiet.
On the last evening, a Friday, our landlords encouraged my mother to take me to their Kingdom Hall, where they thought we would have ample entertainment to round off our holiday. For once,
This was an overwhelming betrayal, although I owed my dad no favours. But what of my mother? Hadn’t she enough to cope with, without me giving her extra trouble? She must be worried sick
about me. ‘Maybe I deserved it. I’ll have to go back, I s’pose,’ I added flatly, looking at the floor. ‘They’ll be angry, though.’
He regarded me sympathetically, and handed me a chocolate biscuit, a big treat. I was torn between wanting to stay in front of his one-bar electric fire, and heading for home. I gave him my name
and address, as requested, and he scrawled them in his wee notebook, rather than in the gigantic ledger on the surface of the mahogany counter. I wriggled down reluctantly from the chair.
‘But you’re just round the corner!’ He smiled at me. ‘I’ll walk you round, will I?’
He must have seen how my face changed as my father, dressed immaculately in his uniform, came to our back door. Of my mother, there was no sign, but my father stood there, a smirk on his face
that I couldn’t understand. Smiles passed between him and the friendly policeman as I hovered uncertainly on the step.
‘Think we have some lost property here.’ The young cop spoke in amiable tones.
‘You’ve saved me the bother of coming to the station,’ said my parent affably, placing a hand on my shoulder that told me my nocturnal adventure was over. ‘In you come,
young lady, you’ve had your mum up the pole with worry.’
‘Bit of a tiff, then?’ The young officer’s voice lost none of its friendliness. ‘The lassie’s got a split lip there, but nothing too serious.’
‘Och, just a bit of a dust-up, that’s all,’ replied my dad soothingly. ‘Nothing I can’t handle. Just you let me deal with it, officer.’
I was pushed into the living room, while both of them spoke about kids these days, and then the younger man departed with a wave. I realized with sickening accuracy that there was no way the
younger guy could confront the six-footer standing on our step. They had recognized each other by sight, and the cop was just one of many who jumped on and off my dad’s bus: he would dismiss
what he had seen.
My parents thought that a good way to patch up their marriage was to take a family holiday. Our trip to the small seaside resort of Montrose, however, was an unmitigated
disaster. Not only was the weather bad, but several times my mother ended up in tears. I never knew what had been said when we called in to see relatives who lived near Banchory, and have tea with
them, but when someone referred to an acquaintance called Betty she dissolved into sobs.
Our holiday home, in a back street of Montrose, was Spartan, with meters that had to be fed regularly with shillings to give gas for heating or hot water. The elderly couple who let part of
their home did not appreciate young children, and expected us all to be out for the greater part of the day, rain or shine. We ventured out of town on a number of day trips, all of which seemed to
begin with accusations by my father about how long it took my mother to organize the children and the food, and to end in rows over directions to various places like Brechin and Stonehaven, and
silences. Just as bad were the looks of hatred I received in the driver’s mirror when I suggested we stopped, or played one more game of I Spy for the sake of the two smaller ones.
There were no books to speak of at our lodgings except
The Pilgrim’s Progress
, which I devoured in a day. The one outing voted a success was to the lighthouse at nearby Scurdie
Ness, where my brothers and I had the chance to run about and explore without being told to be quiet.
On the last evening, a Friday, our landlords encouraged my mother to take me to their Kingdom Hall, where they thought we would have ample entertainment to round off our holiday. For once,
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