Stonemouth Read Online Free PDF Page B

art school lead to that?’
    ‘Pretty much directly,’ I tell him. ‘I was sort of headhunted, after my degree show.’
    ‘Uh-huh. Where you based?’
    ‘London. Well, in theory. I’m rarely there. It’s an international consultancy.’ He’s still just staring at me. I don’t know if that’s contempt in his eyes or indifference. Always found it difficult to read Donald. ‘Just been made a partner,’ I tell him. ‘The youngest.’ Still no reaction. ‘Youngest ever,’ I add. Not that the firm’s really old; it only goes back to the seventies.
    ‘Aye, very nice,’ he says, in that manner that implies that what he really means is, Well done getting away with it so far, ya chancer.
    I grin. Partner. This happened just last week and it’s still sinking in. The only people I’ve told here in Stonemouth are my mum and dad, by phone the evening I heard, and I’ve sworn them to secrecy. Fucking
partner
. I thought I’d be
ancient
by the time that happened. Fucking cool for me. I grin again. ‘Keeps the wolf from the door, Donald.’
    He nods again, sucking his lips in. ‘I think I prefer “Mr M”,’ he tells me. I want to say that he smiles, but really he’s just revealing his teeth. He’s had his Hollywoodised, too. Only slightly frightening. ‘If that’s all right with you,’ he continues, throwing the towel back onto the recliner and crossing his arms. ‘Let’s not pretend everything’s hunky fuckin dory, eh? Or you’re still always welcome in this house, eh, Stewart? Not after what you did,’ he says.
    Shit. That turned nasty bewilderingly quickly. I take a deep breath. ‘For whatever it’s worth, Mr M, I’m sorry,’ I tell him.
    ‘Uh-huh. Well, I’ll tell you straight, son: if it was up to me you still wouldn’t be back here. Be another five years, maybe more, before I’d be happy you showing your face around here.’
    What would it be worth to tell him Fuck You; this is my home town too and I’ll come back any time I fucking want?
    I’dbe lucky to make it out of town alive. Well, a slight exaggeration, I suppose; I’d be lucky to make it out of town with a working pair of kneecaps, or hands that would ever play the violin again (not that I can now, but you know what I mean). Anyway, the sad thing is that he does have a point.
    I don’t say anything, just look down a little, staring at the giant beetle on his T-shirt, and nod thoughtfully. I could say I’m sorry again, but I’ve already said it once. Wouldn’t want to devalue the sentiment.
    ‘You’ve Mrs M to thank for bein here,’ he tells me. ‘Put in a good word for you. Think yourself lucky I listen to her and no the boys.’
    The tiniest frisson of hope – excitement, even – runs through me. Mrs Murston never really gave a damn about me either way, but she’s butter in her eldest daughter’s hands, so more likely the appeal for clemency came from Ellie, not Mrs M herself. It’s worth hoping so, anyway.
    ‘How is Ellie?’
    Donald puts his head back, his expression cold. ‘How is
Ellie
?’ he repeats. I’ve got a quite different feeling running through my guts now. That repeating-what-the-other-person’s-just-said thing is not a good sign with Mr M.
Fuck
, why did I ask that?
    ‘She’s none of your fucking business, that’s how she is,’ he says. His voice is a grinding monotone, like two heavy plates of glass sliding over each other. He glances at the double doors leading back into the rest of the house. ‘Don’t let me keep you.’
    I look down at the floor, nod. Even less point saying any further Sorries, now. ‘Thanks for seeing me, Mr M,’ I mumble, and turn, walk.
    As I draw level with the glazed ceramic cheetahs, he says, ‘Just here for the weekend.’ He says it like that; if there’s a question mark in there, I’m not hearing it.
    ‘Due to leave Tuesday morning,’ I tell him.
    His eyes narrow just a fraction more. ‘All right,’ he says. ‘Good.’ He turns and stamps on the corner