Sonata of the Dead Read Online Free PDF Page A

the other, wishing he had put Mr Brahms on the stereo before he sat down.
    Too late, he thought, and sipped his whisky.
    So. What was up?
    In a word, nothing. So why was he panicking?
    It took half a bottle of TEachers before he got it. He hated children. And today he had been smiling at one of the little brats. He sighed and put his face in his hands, wincing at the raw smell of alcohol on his breath but keeping his position anyway. He had big hands that completely covered his face which suited him fine because he didn’t relish the prospect of seeing his features in a mirror at that moment.
    Now with the darkness absolute, he thought, dwelling upon his past and dreary present.
    Okay, he thought, I’m thrity-three. No, come on, tell it how it is. What’s the point of lying to yourself. Okay. Deep breath.
    I’m thirty-seven. I’m lonely and single. I’ve got a stinker of a job. I hate my boss. I hate green peppers and Sunday mornings. I hate every morning. No TV, a crackly transistor radio that only receives Radio 2 in the evenings and static every other minute of the day. No friends. Well, Stan at the Tusk and Bottle, but I only see him when I feel like having a drink. I don’t think he’s even capable of seeing me half the time. No girl. Well, once. And then he stopped thinking and sighed. The sound was like broken, dead leaves on a quiet woodland path. The clock on the mantelpiece chimed twice. It was 2 am, he was drunk as you like and utterly depressed.
    Her name had been Claire, and once, a million lifetimes ago, they had been engaged and he had been proud to take her out, his ring gleaming as big as an egg (to his eyes at least) on her finger.
    They had fallen in love at university and his first year was devoted to her, sending her roses once a month, wining and dining and pining for her, showing her affection. And everything was fine. He was happy and smiled a lot. Sometimes he smiled in lectures, for no apparent reason and he would walk through the streets to the shops with the same goofy grin on his face and the old women chatting on the poirches would smile and glance at each other, recognising his emotions and commenting on what a wonderful season summer was for love.
    And then his mother died and his world fell apart.
    It had been three years since Claire walked out of his life, four since Brenda, his mother, succumbed to the laughing black cancer in her stomach.
    Claire had been everything to him in the months after Brenda’s death. She had been a crutch and he leaned on her hard.
    It had been April when she rang at his doorbell. A slightly overcast day, similar to the moods that had been sinking on him lately. She had smiled. And he knew then that it was over. He didn’t need to look at her finger to know that the ring had been removedl didn’t have to look at the eyes to see the determination in her actions. The smile said it all. A fleshy Pandora’s box about to open and spill all manner of nasty things.
    ‘Dont’t say it,’ he murmured, adn wandered off to the kitchen to make some coffee. That had been the frist time he had cried since his mother’s death.

4
    The balcony and the bottle were hitching their skirts at me but I couldn’t relax now that I had another possible route to Sarah. I was over the limit so I trotted down to Seymour Place to hail a cab. I nodded and made affirmatory noises as the driver monged on about pit bulls and Chelsea footballers – I resisted the urge to ask what the difference was – all the while wishing I’d brought a hipflask with me. I kept my eyes on the human traffic as we swept along Marylebone Road and turned left into Albany Street, eyes boring into faces, same as always, just in case. It was a beautiful evening. People were flooding into and out of Regent’s Park. I remembered picnics at the Japanese garden in Holland Park with Becs, and Sarah when she was little. She always helped to pack the hamper. She always brought Grapes, her teddy bear with