House of Bones Read Online Free PDF Page A

had to cut his mother’s supper up into small pieces, like a child’s meal, so that shecould eat it all with a spoon. Afterwards, John washed up the dishes and put them away. His mother and father were sitting on the sofa watching
Coronation Street
. “I’m just going out for a bit,” he told them.
    â€œNot too late,” his father warned him. “Don’t forget you’ve got work tomorrow.”
    How could I possibly forget
? he thought, as he stood in front of his bedroom mirror combing his hair.
I’ve had just about the worst day in my entire life and it’s probably going to be even worse tomorrow
. He opened his wardrobe door. Inside were dozens of pinups of girls and rock stars and Crystal Palace football team. He picked out a black Yves St Laurent sweatshirt which his father had bought for £12 from another cabbie. It was probably a fake but it was his favourite. He splashed himself with aftershave and left the house by the back door.
    Down by the parade of shops he met four or five of his friends. They were larking around outside the local corner shop, smoking and teasing some girls. He joined in, and for the next two hours he forgot all about Blight, Simpson & Vane, and Mr Rogers, and 66 Mountjoy Avenue.
    The next day he made himself some sandwiches before he left home, and he made sure that he arrived at work at five minutes to nine. Mr Cleat was already there, sorting through a heap ofcontracts. “Good morning,” he said, coldly, as if it were just as much of a sin to turn up five minutes early as it was to turn up five minutes late.
    â€œOh. Good morning, Mr Cleat. Another hot one, eh?”
    â€œAnother hot what?”
    â€œWell, you know. Day?”
    Mr Cleat sniffed. “Make me a cup of tea, would you. And I wouldn’t mind a touch more sugar than yesterday. I’m not a diabetic.”
    John went to put on the kettle. As he was waiting for it to boil, Liam arrived. John heard him say, “Good morning, Mr Cleat. Another hot one, eh?”
    Mr Cleat said nothing. Liam waited for a moment, and then said, “Please yourself.”
    It was an unexpectedly busy morning. Three couples came in to look at particulars for The Old School House in Tooting Bee, and then a fussy man wanted details on every house in the Valley Road area which could easily be converted into bed-sitting rooms. John had to go to the photography shop twice to pick up developed pictures of new properties, and to the delicatessen once to get Lucy a cream-cheese and cucumber sandwich and a bottle of Perrier water.
    The office was crowded when the door suddenly opened and – for a long, dramatic moment – stayed open. Everybody turned their head. Standing in the doorway, half-silhouetted against the brightsunshine outside, was a tall, almost skeletal man in a Panama hat and a grey double-breasted suit with a black silk handkerchief tucked in the pocket. As he stepped inside, he took off his hat, revealing a head of iron-coloured, slicked-back hair. He looked about fifty-five years old, with a thin, sharply-chiselled face and hooded, almost colourless eyes, like a hawk’s.
    Mr Cleat stood up immediately, as did Liam and Lucy. Courtney was visiting a house by Streatham Common. The man walked through the office, saying, “Good morning,” in a crackly, phlegmy voice like somebody slowly crumpling up a crisp packet. He went straight through to the office marked
R. Vane
and closed the door behind him.
    â€œI wasn’t expecting to see
him
in today,” said Liam. “He usually plays golf on Tuesdays. At least that’s what he says. I can’t really picture him in those checkered golfing trousers, can you?”
    Mr Cleat was obviously agitated. He approached Mr Vane’s door and then he went back to his desk again. Then at last he plucked up the courage to go up and knock. There was an agonizingly long pause and then the door opened just a fraction and