The Unquiet Grave Read Online Free PDF Page B

empty.’
    ‘You ate those two eggs I was saving?’ replied an exasperated McCleary.
    ‘You had them for your tea last night.’
    McCleary senior narrowed his eyes in disbelief. ‘I don’t remember that.’
    Brendan raised a sarcastic eyebrow. That’s not surprising .
    McCleary caught the scorn, adding quietly, ‘Not hungry anyway.’ He continued to root around amongst the dead cigarette butts, emptying singed, stale tobacco on to his rolling paper. ‘Get me a cup of tea.’
    ‘There’s a fresh pot on the side,’ answered Brendan, concentrating on reviving his own dormant roll-up.
    McCleary’s weasel eyes flicked around the debris on the table, before alighting on a teaspoon. He flung it at his son, hitting him on the top of his head and producing a cry more of shock than pain. The spoon glanced off and plopped into the ash-filled grate of a dead coal fire. ‘Then get off your arse and pour me some, you ungrateful little sod.’
    Brendan hauled himself off the sofa and poured tea, ignoring the beady eye trained on him. He plonked it sullenly down on the Formica table and tried to withdraw but the old man grabbed him by the wrist with a powerful hand and stood up to swing his other fist at the side of Brendan’s head.
    Caught flush on the ear, Brendan staggered back against the gas cooker, dislodging several used pots and pans standing dirty on the hob. Trying his utmost to avoid showing the pain, he gathered himself, keeping his eyes glued to his father, and retreated to the safety of the couch.
    ‘Of all the bloody nerve,’ muttered an aggrieved McCleary, sitting back down to take a noisy swig of tea. ‘Kids these days don’t know they’re born. No wonder that whore of a mother didn’t take you with her.’
    ‘She’s not a whore!’ screamed Brendan, jumping to stand square on to his father.
    McCleary slammed his chair back with unexpected vigour, sloshing some of his tea on the table. He made no further move, instead raising an arm, his hand stiff and straight. ‘Talk back to me again and there’s more where that came from, my lad,’ he shouted, glancing at the back of his hand.
    Brendan glared with hate-filled eyes but said nothing, his chest heaving as he tried to control his rage.
    ‘Didn’t think so.’ McCleary sat down again, a sneer contorting the stubble on his sagging, wrinkled face. He pulled open a drawer of the table and took out a half bottle of Navy rum. Removing the cork, he poured a large measure into his tea without taking his amused eyes from his son glaring back at him. ‘That’s right,’ he said quietly. ‘You keep thinking it, son. One day your old man will be too old and you’ll be too big and then. . .’ his laugh was more of a snarl. ‘That day’s a long way off, you little guttersnipe, and don’t you forget it while you’re under my roof.’
    ‘Not as far off as you think,’ mumbled Brendan.
    ‘What you say?’
    ‘I said it’s not your roof unless you pay the rent.’
    ‘And that’s my fault, is it? The Social can’t get their bleeding act together and I’m to blame.’ McCleary sneered again with unconcealed violence but then his expression softened into pleasure and he sought the right words. ‘You see that ripe little virgin last night then?’
    ‘Don’t talk about her,’ muttered Brendan.
    ‘Who? That stuck-up Stanforth girl with the juicy little knockers?’ McCleary chuckled.
    ‘I said don’t talk about her.’
    ‘When you bringing her round here to meet your old man?’ leered McCleary.
    ‘Never. I threw her over, see.’
    ‘You mean she ditched you ’cos you didn’t know what to do with it.’ McCleary grinned, and finally managed to ignite his patchwork cigarette. ‘Shame. I could have taught you a thing or two about how to handle those cock-teasing little whores. Maybe even break her in for you, you ask nicely.’ He stuck out his tongue at an invisible ice cream and laughed as Brendan jumped from the couch and ran to grip the