Inhuman Remains Read Online Free PDF

a bit cooler up there.’
    ‘Heat doesn’t bother me, dear, the opposite, in fact. Are you far from the beach?’
    ‘The house backs on to it.’
    ‘You two must do a fair bit of sunbathing, from the colour of you both. Do you, Tom?’
    He looked back at her. ‘Mum does, sometimes. I don’t. It’s boring: I like swimming.’
    ‘Are you a good swimmer?’
    ‘I suppose so.’
    ‘He is,’ I chipped in. ‘I taught him when he was a toddler. He’s always swum, in the sea and in the town swimming-pool, and with his brother and sister when he’s with them.’
    ‘Does he see much of Oz’s other family?’
    ‘Janet and Jonathan,’ said Tom, firmly, giving them their names. He’s very proud of them, and protective.
    ‘Oh, yes,’ I added. ‘I’ve promised him that he can go on holiday with them in August. They’ve been to stay with us, too.’
    ‘But not . . .’
    I guessed what she was about to say. ‘Their mother? No, not for any more than a night at a time. She brings them, then leaves them, and it’s the same with me when Tom goes to them. Susie and I are on friendly terms, but you know what they say about two women in one kitchen.’ There was more to it than that, too many memories, too much shared pain, but I didn’t want to get into it with my son in earshot.
    ‘One woman in one kitchen is too many as far as I’m concerned.’ Adrienne laughed. ‘I’m a stranger to cooking.’
    ‘My mother did tell me as much,’ I admitted. ‘But surely, when you were bringing up Frank . . .’ I knew at once that I’d said the wrong thing. There was a tightening of the mouth, a tensing of the eyes behind the shades. It only lasted for a second or so, but in that time she looked close to her real age. ‘. . . but maybe not,’ I added quickly, and as lightly as I could. ‘I have to admit that Tom and I eat out as often as not, especially in the summer when all the restaurants in St Martí are open for business, and all the beach bars. Isn’t that right, son?’
    ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But I like it when it’s just us.’
    ‘What’s that over there?’ Adrienne asked suddenly, pointing at a castellated building on the top of a distant hill.
    ‘It’s a castle,’ Tom told her. ‘There’s lots of them here, even more than in Scotland.’
    The rest of the drive home was taken up by my aunt quizzing my son about the local landmarks. His answers usually consisted of two words, ‘Another castle,’ until we passed the first of the roadside prostitutes, and Adrienne asked, innocently, I have no doubt, why she was standing there, in the heat, well away from the nearest village. I sighed with relief when he replied, ‘She’s waiting for a bus.’ He and I had had that conversation a year before, but I couldn’t be sure that one of his little friends hadn’t put him right since then. Before long he’s bound to ask me why no men ever wait there for buses.
    Our garage lies below the house, and its entrance is actually outside the village itself, off the narrow road that runs above the beach. I guess that, in the past, it was a cellar or a stable. It has an automatic opener, and I drove straight in. Tom cancelled the alarm, led the way up the internal staircase, and set out to give his new aunt a tour of the house, as I lugged her case behind them. He finished by taking her out into the front garden to introduce her to Charlie, left dozing in his kennel while we had gone to the airport.
    I had given our guest a room on the first floor, with access to another terrace from which she had her first proper sight of the village, and of the summer people in the square.
    ‘This is beautiful,’ she said, ‘remarkable. You should write, Primavera,’ she declared. ‘The ambience is perfect for a creative person.’
    ‘I’ll pass on that, Adrienne.’ I laughed . . . although I’ve changed my mind since then. ‘All my stories are staying locked up in my head. Come on. If you like, I’ll show you the