2006 - Wildcat Moon Read Online Free PDF Page B

alcohol-fuelled hours of fitful rest here and there over the past years.
    He had become accustomed to perpetual tiredness, but he was a burnt-out crock of a man without desire or purpose left in him; an aimless drifter, who had somehow been washed up into this curious little backwater.
    He couldn’t even remember how the hell he had come to be in the Skallies. His memory was shot to pieces.
    He remembered vaguely the time he had spent in a convent with nuns fussing around him, ministering to him, spoon-feeding him with broth and milk puddings. The next memory was of being holed up in the attic room in Paris out of his head on booze and later being thrown out…then just some dreamlike remembrance of falling asleep and waking up with the key to the Grockles in his hand. And then he’d somehow made his way back to England and down here to the Skallies, a godforsaken place full of people as odd as himself. But nonetheless the people here seemed aware of his need to be alone. Ever since he had arrived no one had bothered him or tried to make his acquaintance.
    He had sought no company for he had nothing left to say to the world. He had no reason to get up in the morning or go out other than to simply exist Existing was easier than not existing. He looked across at the parrot in its cage and it stared back with those knowing eyes that looked a thousand years old.
    The parrot was a mystery to him too. How had he come to be in possession of a foul-mouthed bloody parrot? Had he bought it? Stolen it?
    “I bet you could tell a few tales, old fellow?” he said sadly.
    “ Mange la merde et morte! ” yelled the parrot.
    Fleep shook his head. He’d stay here in the Skallies just a little while longer until he summoned up the energy to put himself out of his misery.
     
    Down below the Skallies the waves were racing up the beach, the wind whistling through the eyeholes of dead crabs, rattling winkle and cockle shells, whisking fish bones into whispering piles around the upturned boats.
    The wildcats wailed in the backyard of the Pilchard Inn and somewhere a scullery door slammed shut and tin mugs and battered spoons that hung on rusty nails rapped out a tattatattat.
    Archie Grimble inched his way slowly over towards Hogwash House, his head bent against the icy wind that was howling along Bloater Row. He lifted the latch on the outside door and stepped quickly inside the porch.
    It was dead spooky standing in there all alone. Hogwash House still smelled of Benjamin. The whiff of Camp coffee and Everton mints, of rum and snuff, of stored apples and liniment
    He stood on tiptoes and yanked the bunch of keys off the hook.
    Benjamin’s old tweed jacket was still hanging on a hook as though he had just come in and taken it off. Archie stepped towards it nervously.
    Then he buried his face in it, sniffed up the familiar woolly smell. He put his hand nervously into the right-hand pocket The paper bag was there unopened. Archie’s Saturday sweets.
    Chocolate chewing nuts.
    Benjamin had always bought them on a Friday up in Rhoskilly and on Saturdays he’d say, “Put your hand in that there pocket, Arch, and see if there’s anything there for you.”
    Sometimes he used to tease him and put them in the other pocket.
    He stood there sobbing softly, the coat rough against his damp face, the smell of the old man strong in his nostrils. After a while he let go of the coat took off his spectacles and wiped his eyes. When he put his spectacles back on he noticed the envelope sticking out of the left side pocket He took it out and turned it over.
    TO MASTER ARCHIE GRIMBLE. PRIVATE.
    Archie wiped his nose on his sleeve and sniffed. He’d never received a letter in his life.
    It was too dark in the porch to read it and he dare not switch on his torch.
    He slipped the letter into the pocket of his trousers and then beat a hasty retreat.
    He moved slowly along Bloater Row, keeping a look out with his one good eye. The cobbles were wet and slippery