Num8ers Read Online Free PDF Page B

he?”
    “No, killed him. Died right there, on that road near the park. We saw it all.” There was a little quiver in his voice. Not such a tough guy after all.
    Val heaved herself down from her perch and shuffled over to the kettle.
    “That right? Here, sit down. I’ll make you both some tea. Nice sweet tea, that’s what you need. Bloody traffic, eh? Can’t even cross the bloody road now, can you?”
    She pottered about making a pot of tea while we crashed in the sitting room, then came in to join us with three mugs and a box of biscuits on a tray. She put the tray on the pouf in the middle and eased herself into an armchair, puffing out as she did. “No good for me back, these chairs. Go on, drink up.”
    I sipped the hot tea while Spider and his nan both sat dunking their biscuits and slurping down soggy, crumby mouthfuls.
    “So, you were just walking along and saw it all, did you?”
    I caught Spider’s eye. No need to worry, though, neither of us wanted her to know that this old guy spent his last minutes terrified we were going to mug him.
    “Yeah, that’s right.”
    “Shocking, isn’t it? You never know what’s ’round the next corner, do you?”
    Spider went off to the bog, leaving me trapped there with her. She shifted forward in her chair. “You alright, Jem? Shakes you up, that sort of thing, doesn’t it?”
    I nodded. “Yeah.”
    “Seen a dead body before? Or was this your first time?” Damn, she didn’t mess about, did she?
    I should have just told her I didn’t want to talk about it. But, like I said, there was something about her — resistance was useless.
    “Me mum,” I said, quietly. Her mouth formed an O, and she nodded like she’d known it all along. I liked that — I liked the fact that she didn’t get embarrassed or start gushing abouthow terrible it was. She just nodded. I kept going. “I found her, like. She died in bed. Overdose. She didn’t mean to. I mean, I don’t think so. Just unlucky.”
    She nodded again. “Unlucky. Like my Cyril. Dropped dead at forty-one. Heart attack, bless him. No one knew there was anything wrong. No warnings or nothing. He’s over there, look, on the mantelpiece.”
    I looked across to the wooden shelf above the fire. Sure enough, among the china dogs and brass candlesticks, there was a framed photo, one of those posh ones done in a studio. Black-and-white, just his head and shoulders. A handsome man, with a bit of a twinkle in his eye. Just a piece of paper in a frame, but it had the power to reach you, make you want to smile back at it.
    “Fetch it over, love, go on.” Reluctantly, self-consciously, I went over to the fireplace. “Go on, pick him up.” I reached up to the frame. “No, not the photo, Jem,” she said sharply, “the ashes, in that box, look.”
    What the…?
    Sure enough, the photo was standing next to a sturdy wooden box. I hesitated. “Go on. He won’t bite you.”
    I moved a couple of ornaments farther to the side, and took hold of the box. It was surprisingly heavy — thick, smooth wood with a little metal plaque on the top:
C YRIL D AWSON, DIED 12 J ANUARY 1992, AGED 41 YEARS.
I carried it carefully and put it on the pouf, next to the tray. Val leaned right over and smoothed her hand across the top of it.
    “Everyone says it’s a terrible thing to go young, but he had a great life, a young man’s life. None of this”—she rested her hand on her back—“aches and pains, slowing down, everything heading south. No, he lived life to the full, lived like a lion, and went out like a light. Just like that.” She clicked her fingers. “It’s not a bad thing.” She put her hand back on the box, thumb stroking the brass plate. “Just that you miss them so much. The ones that go. You miss them.”
    Spider moved from the doorway, where he’d been leaning, and put his arms around his nan. “This your way of cheering Jem up? Daft old cow.”
    “Here, you, less of that.” Her hand shot up to give him a smack.