by Dan Kavanagh
The second thing happened just as Duffy was about to depart. There was a scream from upstairs; a woman’s scream, and quite loud. Then there was some banging of doors. Duffy told himself firmly that it was probably nothing more than Sally making up her mind who to do fucky-fuck with. This reminded him to say goodbye to Mrs Colin. He found her in the kitchen. They nodded and smiled at one another for a minute or so, as if neither of them was fluent in English.
He explained to Vic that he’d have to come back to the Buckinghamshire/Bedfordshire borders to give evidence, first at the inquest — though somehow he felt he mightn’t be called — and later at the trial. But he thought he wouldn’t stay at the Hall if that was all right. On the other hand, Vic might like to take out a regular maintenance contract for the alarm system.
‘Oh, I don’t think I’ll bother,’ said Vic. ‘It seems to be working pretty well. And I’m sure you’ll knock me out a decent price if anything goes wrong. Just for old times’ sake.’
Duffy nodded. ‘I’ll think it over. By the way, what was all that screaming?’
‘That was Angela, I’m afraid. They let Jimmy out, he came straight round here. Only natural, I suppose. Wanted to see Angela, well, that was natural, too, wasn’t it? She’s still in bed, in this little cot in our room, like we told you.’ Duffy imagined the scene. ‘Soon as old Jimmy sees her, what does he do? Gets down on his knees and asks her to marry him.’
Duffy shook his head sadly and climbed into his white Sherpa van. ‘He’ll never get anything right, will he?’ Then he slid the door shut and did a racing turn in front of the porch which fucked up Vic’s gravel properly. He drove fast until he got to the bright brick entrance pillars bearing aloft the family arms of the Blessing-Crowther dynasty: Two Tits Rampant with a weathered ferret crawling all over them. Perhaps they should stick another animal on the unoccupied stone globe, for balance. Like a drowned dog.
A few days later, Duffy was carrying his bright yellow laundry-bag up Goldsmith Avenue, Acton W3. It was a dull Sunday morning, and there was a spatter of rain about, but Duffy felt content. He’d had a good breakfast at Sam Widges, and for once it had been his lucky day: the laundromat had disgorged exactly the same number of socks as he’d fed into it. He sucked in the acrid, dusty, fumey air, still loaded with Saturday night’s smells, and it tasted good to him. He thought of young Karl French, lean as a whippet, pounding the roads in preparation for the football season. Well, he was a striker, after all. Walking to the launderette with a heavy bag of clothes and walking all the way back again on a full stomach was quite enough exercise to keep a goalie in trim.
Three hours later he and Carol sat over the fish in low-calorie sauce which had survived Duffy’s absence uneaten. He was still brooding about his stay at Braunscombe Hall.
‘Does it ever strike you that the country’s going to the dogs?’
‘I think it’s always been like this, Duffy.’
‘I’m beginning to wonder if it’s such a good idea for your Vics to mingle with your Damians and your Damians to go camping with your Henries.’ Carol wisely let this inscrutable utterance pass. ‘I mean, down at that place, they were all doing something naughty. They should all have been arrested, all of them.’
‘Even that one you fancied?’
‘Lucretia? I didn’t say I fancied her.’
‘You didn’t have to.’
Hmm. Carol knew him well and no mistake. Not that it was always too bad, being known well. ‘Lucretia,’ he said forcefully, ‘Lucretia should have been arrested just for being Lucretia.’
‘Duffy, you are a scream. But it’s all right, you know. Anyway, what do you think of the fish?’
Duffy took a gourmet’s tiny forkful and ingested it with a careful frown. ‘I think it needs a little more saffron,’ he announced.
Carol giggled. ‘Do you know what saffron tastes like?’
‘Actually,’ he replied, with as severe a face as he could manage, ‘I haven’t the slightest idea.’
About the Author
Dan Kavanagh was born in County Sligo, Ireland, in 1946. After an uncompromising adolescence, he left Ireland when he was nineteen and roamed the world. He has been an entertainment officer on a Japanese supertanker, a waiter on roller skates at a drive-in eatery in Tucson, and a bouncer in a gay bar in San Francisco. He boasts of having flown light planes on the Colombian cocaine route, but all that is known for certain is that he was once a baggage handler at Toronto International Airport. He lives in Islington, North London, and works in jobs that (with mild paranoia) he declines to specify.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1987 by Dan Kavanagh
Cover design by Michael Vrana
978-1-4804-6745-3
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
345 Hudson Street
New York, NY 10014
www.openroadmedia.com
DUFFY EBOOKS
FROM OPEN ROAD MEDIA
Available wherever ebooks are sold
Open Road Integrated Media is a digital publisher and multimedia content company. Open Road creates connections between authors and their audiences by marketing its ebooks through a new proprietary online platform, which uses premium video content and social media.
Videos, Archival Documents, and New Releases
Sign up for the Open Road Media newsletter and get news delivered straight to your inbox.
Sign up now at
www.openroadmedia.com/newsletters
FIND OUT MORE AT
WWW.OPENROADMEDIA.COM
FOLLOW US:
@openroadmedia and
Facebook.com/OpenRoadMedia