Whitstable Read Online Free PDF Page A

enough cigarettes left in his packet and, no doubt because of the worry this engendered, lit one, no doubt the first of many. He might of course smoke the lot and find this turned out to be a fruitless enterprise. There was no guarantee the man went out on a Saturday night, though a lot of men normally did. He was not dealing with, perhaps, the most normal of men.
    After fifteen minutes or so a dog-walker in a quilted “shortie” jacket passed and Cushing pretended he was mending a puncture with his bicycle pump, never more conscious that his acting had to be as naturalistic as possible. Believability was all. The Labrador sniffed his tyres but the dog-walker, who resembled the sports commentator Frank Bough, yanked the lead and progressed on his way with only the most cursory of nods.
    Cushing fixed his bicycle pump back into place and looked over at the house.
    Hello. The light was on in the hall now, beyond the frosted glass. Shapes were donning coats. The door opened. He ducked down behind the white van, craning round it to watch a man in a donkey jacket tossing his car keys from hand to hand, a few steps behind him a boy in a football strip following him to a parked Ford Zephyr. Reflections in the windscreen stopped him from getting a good look at the man’s face.
    Cushing quickly hid in case Carl, whose eyes were on the road ahead, saw him. He listened for the engine to start and waited for it to sufficiently fade away.
    As soon as it had, he crossed the road and knocked on the front door. He could hear the television on inside, so rapped again slightly harder. “All right, all right, keep your hair on…” A woman approached the glass and he could already make out she wore a red and white striped top, a big buckle on a wide belt and bell-bottomed jeans.
    The door opened to reveal someone who, he imagined, thought herself attractive and feminine but who seemed to have endeavoured to make herself anything but. Her hair was drastically pulled back from her forehead in a pony tail, her clothes did nothing to enhance her figure, and there was nothing graceful or pretty in her demeanour or stance. He thought of the quiet perfection of Helen by comparison and had to quickly dismiss it from his mind. He reminded himself of his abiding belief that all women should be respected and accorded good manners at all times.
    He took off his flat cap. “Mrs Drinkwater?”
    “Yeah.”
    “You don’t know me…”
    “Yeah, I do.”
    His eyebrows lifted. “Oh?” Was she a fan of Hammer films, then, like her son?
    “Of course I do. I’ve seen you on the telly.”
    Fool. He’d been the BBC’s Sherlock Holmes over a number of televised adventures alongside Nigel Stock as Dr Watson. Naturally she recognised him. His portrayal of the great detective, after all, had been widely acclaimed.
    “Morecambe and Wise,” the woman said.
    Oh dear, he thought. How the mighty are fallen. Serve him right. The Greeks had a word for it: hubris . The sin of pride.
    “You live round here,” she said.
    “That’s quite correct. My name’s Peter Cushing.”
    He extended a hand, which the woman saw fit to ignore.
    “I know.”
    “May I come in, please? It’s about your son Carl.”
    “What about Carl? What’s he done now? I’ll kill him.”
    “Nothing. Absolutely nothing, Mrs Drinkwater. Nothing wrong.” He showed her the copy of Movie Monsters which he’d tucked under his arm. “I found this library book of his and I’m returning it, you see.”
    She took the book off him and looked at it but didn’t move or speak, even to say thank you.
    He said again, equally politely: “May I come in?”
    More from being taken unawares than hospitality, the woman stepped back to allow him to enter. He cleaned his shoes on the mat while she walked back into the room with the television on, without asking him to follow her. Though his own manners were faultless, he refused to judge others on their inadequacy in that area. It was often down to