Another World Read Online Free PDF

think he needs changing.’
    ‘Can we change him for one that doesn’t scream?’ Gareth asks.
    The nappy’s full and pungent. Fran presses her hand hard into the small of her back, as she kneels down.
    ‘You sit down,’ Nick says. ‘I’ll do it.’
    Fran won’t use disposable nappies, because of the rain forests or blue algae or something. Normally Nick’s a dab hand with squares of cotton and Velcro, but tonight he’s tired, and suddenly Jasper seems to have six heels and shit on every single one of them. Not solid either – a paste that spreads relentlessly from bottom to feet to hands to oh my God his mouth.
    Very distinctly, as if giving lessons in elocution, Fran says, ‘Nick, you are without doubt the most completely useless man it has ever been my misfortune to meet.’
    Nick throws down the nappy, and walks off.
    ‘Would you pass the baby wipes, Miranda?’ Fran asks.
    Miranda hands her the box, and in the process gets a closer look at Jasper. ‘Ugh. Oh dear.’ She swallows hard. ‘Would you mind if I sat down?’
    ‘What’s wrong with you? ’ Fran asks.
    ‘ “I think I’m going to faint,”’ warbles Gareth.
    ‘Nothing.’
    ‘Is it your period?’
    ‘ No ,’ says Miranda, with an agonized glance at Gareth. ‘I’m just tired. I didn’t sleep very well.’
    ‘She’s afraid of ghosts,’ says Gareth.
    ‘I’m not ’
    ‘There aren’t any ghosts,’ says Nick sharply.
    ‘There aren’t any pizzas either.’
    Nick draws a deep breath. ‘I’ll ring.’
    In the hall he stands for a moment, gazing up into the darkness at the top of the stairs. He didn’t like that remark of Gareth’s about Miranda being afraid of ghosts. Gareth’s capable of playing some very cruel games, but there’s nothing he can do about that at the moment. Pizzas, he thinks, and reaches for the phone.
    A brief, acrimonious conversation, then he bangs the phone down and goes back into the living room. ‘Another ten minutes.’
    ‘Ssh,’ says Fran, who’s trying to get Jasper off to sleep.
    Miranda’s picked up her scraper again.
    ‘Sure you’re all right?’ Nick asks.
    ‘Fine.’
    They must have been working in total silence for five minutes when Gareth says, ‘I’ve found a foot.’
    ‘What?’ Nick asks.
    ‘A foot. Drawing of.’
    ‘Can’t be.’ Nick bends down, and scrapes away another inch of paper. ‘Do you know, I think he’s right?’
    ‘Thank you.’
    ‘I wonder if there’s any more?’
    Miranda forgets about feeling ill. Everybody forgets about the pizzas. They angle the lamps more closely and start scraping again, revealing a whole shoe, the draping of cloth across a flexed knee, a hand clasping the arm of a chair.
    Once he’s got an idea of the scale, Nick splashes stripper on to the wall where he thinks the head must be, becoming more excited as he works, for what’s emerging is no stick drawing, no crude approximation of a man, but a strongly individual face. The eyes keenly alert, he seems to lean out of the wall. A glitter of intelligence, almost too keen, rapacious even. Instinctively, Nick looks to the mouth for confirmation, but the walrus moustache, drooping over the upper lip, makes its expression difficult to read. Ruthless, perhaps? At any rate, the impression is one of power.
    ‘Fanshawe,’ Nick says. ‘Has to be.’
    ‘The clothes are right,’ says Fran, coming to stand beside him. ‘I mean, he looks Victorian.’
    Just behind Fanshawe’s shoulder is a button belonging to somebody else’s jacket. A toddler’s dimpled fist rests on his left knee.
    ‘It’s a family portrait,’ Nick says slowly.
    The doorbell chimes. Fran goes to answer it and comes back carrying a stack of white cartons. ‘Pizzas.’
    They break off and eat, gazing all the time at the wall. Miranda’s whiter than ever, but when Nick asks if she wants to lie down she simply shakes her head. Fran’s got two distinct spots of colour in her cheeks. Nick can hardly force the food down, though