Old Flames Read Online Free PDF Page B

how little he had ever told Charlie of his affair with Diana Brack. But then, he had never told anyone. Far easier was it to own up to killing
than to loving. Young Fermanagh had rubbed this home in one drunken fit by quoting Oscar Wilde’s piece of appalling doggerel on the subject: ‘We each one kill the thing we love.’
It was quite possibly the only piece of verse Johnny knew by heart, and he had failed utterly to work out whether it was the brave man who had the sword or the other chap, and undoubtedly
well-meant; but right now Troy could do without such platitude. He closed his eyes and asked the driver to tell him when they reached Waterloo.

§6
    Quigley had a perverse flair for melodrama. His rambling, twisted, late-Tudor dockside inn had seen countless additions and changes, amongst which was electricity in the
bedrooms. Not, however, in the corridors and landings, along which Quigley led Troy by the sweeping, sputtering glare of a kerosene lamp, arm held high, shadows leaping from wall to wall, less like
a retired copper and more like a ham auditioning for the part of Long John Silver.
    ‘You made it just in time. Another two minutes and I’d’ve barred the door and called it a day.’
    Pieces of eight, thought Troy. ‘Good of you to stay up,’ he said.
    Quigley thrust open the door to a vast barn of a room and pointed across the wildly sloping floor to the comfort and welcome of a half-tester bed, already turned down, inviting Troy to a sleep
he fervently hoped would be dreamless. He dropped his case and sloughed off his coat, hoping Quigley was not in the mood for chat.
    ‘Early breakfast, you said?’
    ‘Seven-thirty, if that’s not too …’
    ‘Fine, fine, Mr Troy. One o’ my girls’ll be serving. Mary, my youngest. You’ll remember her. We’re pretty full tonight. Lots o’ them reporter chappies down
from Fleet Street to snap those Russkis tomorrow. Not that any o’ them’ll be up with the lark. I’ve one other early call. Salesman chappie from up north somewhere. So it’ll
be no trouble.’
    Quigley paused. The obvious had occurred to him.
    ‘I don’t suppose that’s got anything to do with your own visit, Mr Troy? Russkis an’ all?’
    Troy smiled and said nothing. Whatever answer he gave would only be to invite Quigley to natter, and he desperately wanted his bed. Quigley took the hint. Troy heard the floorboards creak all
the way back down the corridor. The wind rose suddenly and he felt the room shake and the old oak flex under the strain like a mast in a storm.
    Pieces of eight, he thought, and fell gratefully into the half-tester.
    In the morning he woke early and stared at the light slanting in through the curtains. It could not be later than six-thirty; he could hardly have slept more than five hours. He closed his eyes
again and the dream flooded back in on him, the searing images of Diana Brack: stalking him across a wasteland, gun in hand; curled sleeping in the crook of his arm; stretching, yawning, naked at
the foot of his bed. His eyes snapped open. He threw back the sheets, bumped onto the drunken floor, and cursed Johnny Fermanagh once more.
    In the dining room a flustered Mary Quigley met him. A dozen tables stood piled with chairs and in the midst of them one had been set for breakfast. A small man in a blue blazer sat with his
back to them, his right elbow working vigorously.
    ‘You won’t mind sharing, will you?’ Mary asked. ‘Only I’m way behind this morning and as there’s just the two of you, it does save setting two tables and
running between them like a scalded cat. I’ll be doing enough of that when those randy buggers from Fleet Street stir their stumps. Bottom pinchers the damn lot of ’em.’
    Put like that, Troy could hardly say no. Of course he didn’t want to share. Breakfast was the most private meal of the day. Selfish beyond reproach. His father had always risen early to be
sure of taking it alone. His mother had always