Flesh and Blood Read Online Free PDF

at Crooked Elms. Carol and his mother were in the kitchen, with the windows wide open. Matt sat in the shady part of the garden, staring at the pages of a thriller, unable to focus.
    “Mike says it’s the best option,” said Carol. “He says it should raise at least a quarter of a million.”
    Matt couldn’t see his mother’s expression, but from the long silence he could picture it clearly: eyes down, lower lip sucked in, reaching up to push the hair away from her eyes. When she spoke, the tone of her voice told him he had been right. “I don’t know,” she said, hesitantly. “It seems so... so tacky : that we should be talking like this behind his back. Have you spoken to Dad about it?”
    “He didn’t understand,” said Carol, in a strained tone. “He didn’t even know which house I was talking about.”
    “Can’t we wait?”
    “It’s expensive, Jill, darling.” Carol had adopted a patient tone now, the one she used on her father when he was at his least co-operative. “I’m running two households here on a single budget. Dad’s pension barely meets his drinks bill. I’ve tried to reason with him, but he’s as stubborn as me.”
    “But that house has been in the family for generations,” said Matt’s mother. “There have always been Waredens in Crooked Elms.”
    “We sell it now,” said Carol harshly. “Or we sell it when Dad’s passed away. That’s the truth of the matter. I never liked that place, anyway.”
    ~
    That afternoon, Matt wandered back into town. This was how his days were: walking from place to place, sitting around reading, just waiting while time passed. He didn’t belong here. He didn’t fit in. It all seemed so pointless...
    Eventually, he ended up at the bed and breakfast. He let himself in to the house and climbed the stairs, a heavy feeling of gloom descending with each step.
    He pushed at his door, went in and looked around.
    Everything was in its place: his books lined up on the dressing table, along with his comb and washing bag. His dirty jeans were slumped in the corner where he had dropped them the night before last. His signed picture of Michael Owen was still Blue-Takked to the back of the door. There was an old crisp packet in his bin and the sticky stain of spilt Coke on his bedside table – Mrs Eldridge clearly had not been in to clean up today.
    So why did he suddenly feel as if his space had been violated? Why did his eyes keep skipping around the room as if he expected someone to jump out from some hidden crevice?
    He went downstairs again. Somehow he didn’t find the prospect of filling time in his room very appealing any more.
    He met Mrs Eldridge in the hallway, emerging from the front room with a pile of ironing up to her chin.
    “Oh, Matt,” she said. “I didn’t know you were back. Still enjoying the seaside, are you?”
    “Sure,” he said. “Great.”
    “Good, good.” She headed for the stairs, then paused on the first step and half-turned to face him. “Oh, I nearly forgot: your young cousin was here. Tina. I said you’d gone out and I wasn’t expecting you back until tea. Poor girl. She looked very disappointed to have missed you...”
    ~
    The next day was a Saturday and they went to visit Gramps as usual.
    Tina and Kirsty were sitting on the floor in the front room playing one of their video games.
    Matt dropped into a space at the end of the sofa and watched their animated characters kicking and hacking their opponents to death. “What did you want yesterday?” he asked, eventually. When there was no sign of a reply, he added, “When you came to Mrs Eldridge’s.”
    Kirsty peered at him and Tina said primly, “I’m afraid I have no idea what it is that you are talking about. You must be mistaken.”
    Matt picked up the local paper and scanned its columns. Let her play her juvenile games if she liked, he decided.
    Around mid-morning, his mother came in. She smiled at Matt. “Want to be useful?” she asked him.
    He looked